


Whom Gods Destroy

by GuiltyRed



Series: The Cross of Changes Arc [6]
Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Mindfuck, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 27,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuiltyRed/pseuds/GuiltyRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One driven man is determined to bring about the downfall of Schwarz and bring at least one of them back to Rosenkreuz alive. The story of the search for Schwarz from Esset's standpoint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**1\. – Betrayed**

  
The Ritual had been planned out for more than a century. Everything had been in place, with our best and brightest assigned to make certain it was a success.

We should have entered a new age that day.

_Something has gone very, very wrong._

The undercurrent that was Esset has become turbulent, torn: instead of the constant psychic presence governing our lives, the power of the Elders raged and vanished like a cyclone spinning itself into oblivion.

_They_ are gone. There is no other explanation.

_He_ has done this.

And now Esset has turned on its own, as a mad beast will snap at its own flanks with no other target present.

I paced through my apartment, feeling increasingly trapped and beyond my means. What began as a clearing out of deadwood has become open rebellion. Apparently the young herd was not so ready to die. They have taken up arms against their masters and were even now carving their way through this facility. Already I could hear the gunshots in the corridors. It was now only a matter of time before they came for me as well.

With practiced calm I unloaded and reloaded my revolver, then checked the action on the automatic. I would not go without a fight, though it was one I was destined to lose. Already once I had cheated death by pistol; I knew I would not remain lucky forever.

Lucky…or fated? My right hand sought the scar on my left shoulder, just beside the rise of my neck. Once before I had faced down death, once before clung to life with a fierce determination.  
   
Even at the cost of my soul.

_[Sixteen; an Esset Youth Captain in Berlin. Dueling to avenge a slight, an insult – a statement that was, nonetheless, true._

_“Your face gains you your rank, Stricher!”_

_I raise my pistol, hand steady._

_If I shoot this boy…it will never stop._

_I will never stop…]_

Footsteps powered by fear skidded to a halt outside, followed by frantic knocking.

I aimed both guns at the door. “It’s open.”

The door flew inward, bounced off the wall and nearly hit the wild-eyed student as he flung himself into the room. “Sir! Herr General! I’ve Seen them!”

Cold fire lit a trail up my spine. I let the guns slip from my hands and grabbed the youth by his lapels. “Say clearly – whom did you See?”

“Schwarz! They live!”

A clatter of boot heels sounded outside. One messenger was all that was required; I clutched the boy to me and envisioned a barrier of steel between us as the executioners rounded the door frame and opened fire. In my arms, the young precog jerked soundlessly with the impact of two dozen rounds.

“Hold your fire!” I shouted, my unwitting shield now limp meat stinking of ozone and cordite. “I have information for your masters.”

  
**A/N:**

**A Brief Note about the Titles:**

Unlike the titles in the other stories of the “Cross of Changes” Arc, the single- or two-word titles are taken from songs which will only be referenced in passing. The characters have no connection with the music. It is solely a vehicle for my muse. I will provide the lyrics in their own document on my website as with the other stories, with no additional commentary in the Author’s Notes. This is to keep the focus on the mood and not the muse.

**1\. – Betrayed**

The story opens during the Purge of Rosenkreuz, in the aftermath of the fall of the Elders…

_Stricher_ – boy-whore


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - Alone**

Reprieve, or condemnation? I shook my head as I returned to my apartment. I was one of perhaps a dozen teachers and staff who still breathed. Should I consider myself lucky? Or damned?

Pausing to bolt the door, I rested a hand against the heavy wood, tasting each indiscretion it had witnessed. My eyes closed, allowing moments of my life to replay behind the lids, a red-tinged home movie I would rather not revisit.

I couldn’t know if my secrets were still intact, but part of me knew it didn’t truly matter. I had my orders, and I would find a way or they would kill me. Simple, direct, precise. No more games. I’d been involved in too many of those. Never again.

One by one I went through my rooms and my desks, seeking out the trappings of the old order and packing them away. Paperwork unfinished found itself swept into a box, my responsibility no longer. My bare hands burned with each lonely scrap of paper, each battered file, the residue of humanity clinging stubbornly to the debris of a fallen order. The pain grew, driving me onward at a mad pace; sweat dripped from my forehead, matted my hair. I wiped an arm across my face, every fibre in my body trembling and on the edge of shock. I clung to the heavy mahogany desk as though it were an anchor against the storm.

Slowly I regained my composure and put my gloves back on, tugging them into place with crisp precision, as I always had. Decades of service and not one whisper that anyone knew of this gift, this curse, this madness that kept me apart from my fellows and untouched by all but a few.

_All but one…_

This room still remembered him. I tried, oh God I tried, but without directly willing it I removed my gloves again and set my hands flat to the wall beside the office door. He had slept here, his hair touching the wall as he turned in his sleep, his face as calm and still as an angel’s.

I could almost smell the shampoo. My lips parted and I sucked at the air, desperate for a taste, a moment of the past to redeem all my pain. Air burned into my chest, bitter and cold and tasting only of spent freon and dust.

I stood there, embracing the wall, daring the past; my pulse thundered in my ears. He had been perfect, unspoiled, and for one brief moment mine.

_[The phone rings. A secretary’s voice. “I am to inform you that new orders have been issued in the matter of the boy precog. He is to reside with the general populace effective tomorrow.”_

_Panic, dread – that would be like handing him over to a pack of half-starved jackals! – “There must be some mistake, I was assigned to mentor him and keep him under personal surveillance for four months!”_

_“There is no mistake. I have the orders right here, sir.”_

_Dread becomes horror and I ask “Who signed the order?” through lips gone suddenly numb._

_“Herr Sonndheim, sir.”]_

My knees gave way and I allowed myself to crumple to the floor, my fingertips trailing white fire down the wall. I should have distanced myself, I should have simply turned away, but I could not bear the thought of that monster getting hold of that sweet boy. I knew what games Sonndheim favored, and I knew from the first that he wanted Bradley. Bradley, my sweet young hope. My diamond, my star.

My retrieval team had found him on my lead, a boy of unusual gift in a humble corner of the world. I had felt him, known where he would be. What I had not known was how powerful he truly was, or what he would one day become. Becomings are not a thing I can taste, they reside in his world, in the immensity of the future.

Memory tormented me, replaying that damn phone call over and over:

_[“Herr Sonndheim, sir.”]_

_[“Herr Sonndheim, sir.”]_

_[“Who signed the order?”_

_“Herr Sonndheim, sir.”]_

I screamed, an incoherent roar of fury as I leaped to my feet and began ripping the desk drawers free one by one and dumping their contents in the packing box or on the floor or wherever the hell they landed before hurling the drawer into the far wall with all the force of my training behind it. Shards of mahogany and brass fittings flew back at my face like shrapnel.

_[“Who signed the order?_

_“Herr Sonndheim, sir.”]_

I jumped onto the desk and tore at the ceiling tiles, pulling them free and sending them tumbling floorward. My fingers searched for the pain among the wiring and insulation, and found nothing.

As though merely descending from a stair-step I vacated the desk, jarring my back as my feet returned to the floor but not caring. I had work to do, and less time to do it. I should have done this years ago, but in the beginning it was far too dangerous and later it had become meaningless. Now it was the only thing I had left, the only unfinished business with a corpse, and I was determined to finish it before taking up my new command.

One by one I scoured each room, climbing onto desks and bookshelves to rape out the hidden spaces above my home. My hands hurt, but I was without pity or mercy, just as I was trained to be. I heard myself cry out as my fingers closed over a length of wire that still carried its origins in its heart. Wrapping it around my wrist for leverage, I pulled, hard, and heard a satisfying ripping sound as it came free, nearly plunging me from my perch in the process. The tiny camera had played silent witness to every moment I spent in my living room, every meal, every breath, from kitchen to window to sofa. The sofa…

I snarled aloud and continued my rampage, determined to rid my life at last of that maggot, that miscarriage, that demon that was Erich Sonndheim.

_[A dismissive glance. “Herr Crawford, I presume?” A proprietary leer. “Handsome boy, Konrad. Needs more sun.”_

_“Always a pleasure to meet one of Schoenberg’s boys. Good evening, Bradley Crawford…”]_

The snarl escalated into a full-throated howl. My body trembled with the force of it even as it tried to reject the psychic poison that lived in Sonndheim’s camera wiring. The man was dead, dead and gone, executed by perhaps the only one who could have pulled it off.

Executed by my star, my brilliant unspoiled diamond.

And with that move, they had both condemned me to a life in hell. I could never leave here, with Sonndheim dead: someone had to keep watch over the animals in this monstrous menagerie, and that honor had fallen in turn to me.

My dream of tenderness, of love, with my star shattered; my dream of freedom scattered into a million fruitless imaginings.

Betrayed.

Red tinged my vision – red fire, red hair, red blood. Breath came in ragged gulps, bringing dizziness and a sense of euphoria. The euphoria of the damned.

I threw my head back and bellowed at the heavens. “You were supposed to take me with you!”

  
**A/N:**

From “Standing Outside the Fire”, Bradley’s POV: _He said something else in German, pausing in the middle to look me up and down like a side of beef; I felt my face go red, but I couldn’t understand exactly why._

Here we find the scene from Konnor’s point of view: _A dismissive glance. “Herr Crawford, I presume?” A proprietary leer. “Handsome boy, Konrad. Needs more sun.”_

Bradley Crawford was a farmboy from Kentucky. He arrived at the end of summer. He would have a healthy tan…most everywhere.

Not much more to add here, I think.


	3. Chapter 3

  
**3\. – Puppets**

I feigned a yawn to cover a sneer and masked it all with the back of my hand. The interminable bureaucracy of Esset had not died; time and action slid further away with every damned meeting.

“Yes, yes, we’ve heard this all before,” I cut in. “You’re very good at telling us what we do not have. I’m rather more interested in what we do have, Herr Edelmann.” My lips curled into a smile as the young despot squirmed. He had come here to become a teacher, fresh from the officer’s corps in Berlin, and now fancied himself our better. Very well, let him prove himself.

Edelmann glared at me, then addressed the assembly. “As I was saying, we know that the revered Elders are no longer with us, and we suspect that the field team of Herr Crawford was involved in their demise. We have searched their apartments and canvassed the vicinity, to no avail. Divers have found no trace among the wreckage.”

As the pompous little man droned on, I studied my fellows. Most were far too young. Aside from Garrick and Mendez, I would be the oldest here, and that at barely forty. These arrogant pretenders didn’t know what they were looking for, and they had no clue how to find it. They did, however, hold our lives as hostage. My teeth clenched against the bitter taste of that fact.

“Our stronger telepath units are even now being deployed to Japan, in a wide-angle search dispersal. They should be able to triangulate on the targets within a matter of days.”

“Presuming, of course, that they are still on those islands,” Garrick pointed out, his tone at once bored and frosty. “Come now, what makes you think Crawford would keep his team within the search zone? He knows procedure, why would he sit and wait for us to come fetch him up like a lost puppy? Logic, man!”

A smile tugged at my lips, drawn by an idea of flawless strategy. I wallowed in my certainty for a few moments, watching the interaction between Herr Garrick and Herrchen Edelmann as the two began a stare-down across the table. Hesitation had the power to make some things sweeter, and the coming moments should be sweet.

Twenty-four days of hyperbole and rhetoric, of accusations and finger pointing. Three weeks plus three, dead and gone, never to be had again. Plenty of time for a resourceful team leader to devise a plan and execute it. They could be anywhere, and this young buffoon couldn’t think of a more effective use of our time than to sit in meetings and discuss it ad nauseam.

The room fell silent. Edelmann had lost the staring contest, turning away with clenched jaw. If our little Napoleon were armed or willing to use his gift, and if he were the fool we thought he was, Garrick would be a dead man by nightfall.

I cleared my throat and raised my hand, the glove seeming to draw light to it in the overcrowded room.

“What is it, Schoenberg?” Edelmann snapped, clearly at the end of his patience.

My voice did not betray my smile as I said, “It is customary, is it not, in the event of an accident, to question any eyewitnesses present? Tell me, who were the last persons to see Crawford’s team alive?”

Edelmann frowned, thinking hard. But not hard enough. “The Elders. What’s your point, General?”

“No, you idiot,” I stated, making my point without delicacy, “I mean who are themselves still alive! I am not a trance medium, nor have I ever met one of any accuracy.”

The room once again fell silent, but this time my colleagues glanced from one to another with new interest.

Edelmann had just lost his fragile new command.

“Kritiker,” Mendez observed, nodding confirmation. He addressed me alone as he said, “There were swarms of Kritiker agents that day, Konrad. Our operatives dealt with a number of them, but traditionally that organization uses heavy backup.”

“And we have no idea what happened within the chambers,” commented a young teacher whose face was not familiar; probably a physical talent. “There was a fire, of course, most likely the armory. This compromised the structure of the building itself, but we have no way of knowing if it was set on purpose, or if it was an accident.”

“Don’t we?” I queried, once more firmly in control and quite pleased with that fact. I noticed that young Edelmann had seated himself in a far corner; I may yet find worth in that one. At least he knew when to concede. “Don’t we? Surely we have one or two telemetrists left among the fold?”

The speaker blanched. “You mean have someone read the debris from a fire that devoured at least three hundred and sixty lives, General Schoenberg? Do you know what that could do to a reader?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I do.” I steepled my hands on the table, noting as I did so a smudge on my left glove. I frowned at it, then turned my attention back to the assembly. Twenty-eight pairs of eyes were fixed on me, as it should be. “Gentlemen, ladies, I confess that I have presumed that finding this missing team ranked high in your priorities. If this is not the case, then please, allow me to withdraw the suggestion. We should perhaps take a few minutes to clarify our objectives.” My gaze traveled from the first pair of eyes to the next, surveying the crowd one by one.

“We do need to know what went wrong,” Mendez murmured, “and Schwarz would be the only reliable witnesses. They were closest to the Elders. If they still live, they alone would know the truth of it.”

“Perhaps not,” Garrick offered. “There were Kritiker agents present. Could Schwarz have been captured?”

“There are several avenues of information,” I reminded them. “I still recommend the reader, along with a thorough forensics review. That, and…find out who, precisely, was present in the name of Kritiker, who is not among their listing of the dead.”

  
**A/N:**

_Herrchen_ – diminutive version of Herr (“little Mister”), meant here as an insult.

Telemetrist – Rosenkreuz term for object reader, rather than the traditional term “psychometrist”. The initials “TM” are used for their object readers while “PM” is reserved for the psychometabolic talent family. Similarly, telekinetic (“TK”) instead of psychokinetic, as “PK” refers to pyrokinesis, a different animal entirely.


	4. Chapter 4

**4 – Dance**

The new furniture pleased the eye, but I couldn’t help regret the loss of my mahogany desk. It had been with me from the start, and now it lay in a landfill somewhere, destroyed in a fit of rage uncustomary of me. I wasn’t a violent man, or impatient, but every man has his limits, and recent events had apparently pushed me beyond mine.

Nothing to be done for it now. I seated myself at the new sleek walnut desk and began sifting through the information we had managed to scrape together over the past month and a half. Casually I thumbed the switch for the track lighting, yet another token of my momentary madness. While repairing the ceiling, the crews had asked if I would like the upgrade, and since they had precious little else to do with their time, I had accepted, but only on the condition that I supervised everything. I’d only just gotten rid of the surveillance devices; damned if I was ever going to put up with that again.

_[“Konnor, you should be more careful. You know he’s watching you.”_

_“I know, Shelley.”_

_“What did you ever do to him?”_

_“I told him ‘no’.”]_

I shook my head. It didn’t take much to get Erich’s attention, and once one had it, it was impossible to be rid of. The man was a leech, a barnacle, a human herpie. Bitter laughter poured from my lips at the thought, though the man did not inspire humor. Damn it all, I finally got him out of my home, did I carry him inside my mind, now?

_[“You are just like me. We are the same, my dear General.”]_“I am not like you!” My voice echoed off the empty walls, my books not yet restored to the new shelving.

Dark laughter flowed out through the cracks, those places where corners meet and let the night seep in.

Cold sweat crept down my back, chilled the belt-line of my trousers. “Erich Sonndheim is dead. He cannot _[dear God don’t let him touch me!]_…” The words fell to silence.

With shaky hands I poured myself a double shot of schnapps. My jaw clenched as I raised the glass to my lips and I nearly gagged on the potent liquor. Sonndheim had favored the stuff. At the moment I considered it strictly medicinal. Use spirits to banish spirits; I only hoped it would work.

I sat there at my new desk, cradling the half-empty glass between gloved hands. The past grudgingly returned to its grave. I sighed at its passing.

“Done is done,” I murmured, whether to myself or to another I was not certain. “Cannot be undone.” I finished my drink.

Reports lay strewn across the desk, beckoning to me with their crisp black letters and scrawled signatures. I picked one up at random, leaned back in my chair, and began to read.

The apartment assigned to Schwarz during their stay in Japan had been ransacked in a very methodical manner. The computers had been disabled, no recovery possible. And no one had seen or heard anything.

Esset was monitoring all known bank accounts, but I knew Bradley well enough to believe that the money would one day be gone and we would never have seen it leave. He was too clever, too resourceful; were this not so painful, it would be a delightful game of chess. To match wits with my own star… I smiled at the thought. Then reality gnawed away at the edges, reminding me that this was no boy I was dealing with, but the man. Brad Crawford the team leader was a far cry from young Bradley of Kentucky.

Set a fox to catch a fox…

“All right, my love,” I crooned to his memory, “we’ll play this your way. You hide, and I will seek. The world is not big enough to conceal your entire team for long. No matter how slick you are, your companions will betray you. It is only a matter…of time.”

I rose from my seat and strode to my bedroom. From the closet I took an old suitcase. The ink on the airline label was faded, but if I squinted just so I could still make out the name: Bradley Crawford. I set the suitcase on my bed, then paused. If I took this step, I would be committing myself to the hunt, knowing full well that others wanted his death rather than his capture.

Then again, if I played a shrewd hand, I would soon be commanding the search myself.

I opened the suitcase.

Inside lay a jumble of clothing: nothing important beyond its capacity to muffle sound. I tossed the clothes aside, unstrapped the garment divider and pushed it up and out of the way. Below it, fastened so as not to rattle and surrounded by more castoff clothing, lay a box.

I regarded this box with something akin to reverence. What it contained was more precious than gold, more rare than jewels.

It contained Bradley’s past.

Slowly I peeled off my gloves.

My hands lingered on the box lid a moment, just barely sensing what lay within. The old hunger rose up in me; I fought it down. This was hardly the time or place for such foolishness. With an impatient flourish I tossed back the lid.

A few paperback books languished in one corner, their pages yellowed at the edges. Beside these lay a broken watch and two old pairs of eyeglasses. The shirt he had arrived in, a pair of well-worn jeans, some underwear – all these things seemed to be waiting for his return. My fingers trailed over each item, affording me brief glimpses of the boy who had once been my everything.

The breath caught in my throat as I touched the dark gray jacket, his first-issue uniform. He had only worn that jacket four months: his shoulders had been determined to render it obsolete. Then he had begun to sprout in height, offsetting the shoulders and leaving him once more a lanky, gangly youth with big feet and big hands, and an awkward way of running.

I could still taste his fear on that coat.

_[“…new orders have been issued in the matter of the boy precog…”]_

If there was anything I could do for my star, I would grant him a quick capture, and his team a swift execution. It may be the only mercy they would find with Esset, and I wasn’t certain I could manage to obtain it for them. But I felt I owed him at least that much.

I let my hand move at random across the artifacts in the box. It had been too many years since he had touched any of these things; still, the trace of him lingered like a ghost too bewildered to move on.  
   
Move on…

The world has moved on… I picked up the first of his books and frowned thoughtfully at it. Long ago I had read this, craving some insight into my dear Bradley. The man Roland was chasing someone, or was he being led? My memory played tricky with me on that, or perhaps it was the author’s intention that I wonder such.

To be the prey, while believing oneself the hunter – how humbling.

A full smile curved my lips, the sensation pleasant to me. My little lost love, would you even notice if you were no longer leading in the dance?

Precognitives often played havoc off one another, their gifts creating a vortex of possibilities. The nature of this was not well understood, along the lines of chaos theory and quantum physics: too many observers spoiled the outcome, basically. If more than a couple of precogs tried to snoop around a similar point in the future, they would wind up with confusion and headaches. Sometimes having too many clairvoyants and other similar talents at work could achieve the same mischief. It had never been recorded whether the effect could work over great distances, but I was ready to find out.  
   
Book still in hand, I returned to my desk. I set down the book, and picked up the phone.

“Yes, I’ll hold.” I waited, allowing my mind to turn and study what it had latched onto. I could find no flaw in it. “Who do we have on the distant surveillance side of this?” I inquired. “I need to call a meeting. No, with all of them. That’s right. And every other clair-talented mind we have access to. I want to try something.”

  
**A/N: 4. – Dance**

Konrad’s comment – “Done is done. Cannot be undone.” – is my little tribute to another Stephen King novel _(Insomnia)._ Creepy book. Very recommended.


	5. Chapter 5

**5\. – Smiling**

My fist connected with cheekbone, sending a thrill up my arm and sending the other man to the floor. “You fool!” I snarled down at him, resisting the urge to kick. “How could your men be so clumsy? Now they know beyond any doubt that we have agents searching for them!”

The report trembled in my left hand even as my right clenched and unclenched, wanting to wrap around the idiot’s throat and squeeze. Four ops confirmed a positive sighting of the telepath Schuldig in Tokyo. Four TP operatives who should have been able to net him with little difficulty. And they had let him slip through their fingers.

“Tell me why I should not kill you!”

“Entschuldigen Sie, bitte, Herr General!

I turned my attention to the speaker. He flinched as my gaze fell full upon him. _“Was?”_ If he tried to make excuses for the failure, he would join his associate at my feet.

“Sir, the DNA traces came back positive. It’s him.”

“A wounded man, sliding down a thorn-covered wall, limps away into the night and vanishes into thin air.” I shook my head as an unseemly mirth rose up in me. The absurdity of the situation could not be denied. “Then again,” I chuckled, “they did outwit the Elders themselves. Why should you have expected any different?”

The man on the floor nodded weakly.

I offered him a hand up. Once he was standing, I whispered, “You’re off the case. Get out of my sight.”

He hurried out the door.

The young courier fidgeted, not sure if he should follow or wait to be dismissed. I made his suffering brief. “You too. Get out.”

The hallways cleared before me as I returned to my apartment. Apparently word had spread. A good thing, that, as I was not in the mood for chatter. The crumpled report fluttered to the desktop as though glad to be released at last.

My right glove was soiled. I glared at the oil-smeared knuckles and the faint pink of blood. Haste makes laundry. With a self-directed sneer I peeled the gloves off and headed for the bathroom.

I shut and locked the door, then started a sinkful of washwater. Only then did I remember to turn on the light. Old habits remained fresh; a well-lit bathroom had been a risky thing for too long in my life. I doubted I would ever truly overcome that conditioning.

As I wrung the water from the fabric, I caught sight of myself in the mirror, and frowned. Though the color was wrong, my eyes reminded me of his eyes: dark, and momentarily haunted. Like that day…  
   
I averted my gaze. Let the past die.

Hell, it had died long ago; let the damn thing have the decency to remember it was dead.

_[“I don’t understand! That wasn’t supposed to happen! You’ve got to believe me, I didn’t do this!”]_

I clung to the vanity, my hands white-knuckled. I didn’t need this now, of all times – I had work to do! Why couldn’t the past just stay behind me? Damn it!

_[“Past is past, the future uncertain…”]_

The mirror shattered in a cacophony of diamonds. Behind it, the wall plaster cracked, sending a jagged run up to the ceiling.

“You’re dead, damn you!” I shouted, eyes tight shut in case some fragment of mirror still lingered to show me a shadow that could not exist. “You’re all dead, and he’s mine!”

No hand reached out to grasp my shoulder, no laughter mocked me, no pale face shrank from my touch. Time resumed its forward turn, leaving the past…past.

Slowly my breathing returned to normal.

That’s right, I had work to do.

The glass had fallen around me, missing my person and the sink. I finished wringing out my gloves, then stepped carefully over the mess and opened the door.

From my bedroom I retrieved a spare set of gloves, leaving the damp pair draped over the bedpost to dry.

At my desk, I picked up the phone and called for maintenance. I would need that wall repaired, and the mirror replaced, as well as any remaining shards dealt with.

An unpleasant smile curled my lip at that last thought – remaining shards dealt with, indeed. So young Schuldig was out and about, running through the night wounded and alone in the wilds of Tokyo. Like any injured beast, he must go to ground eventually. With any luck, the operatives were not so thoroughly incompetent as to lose him for long.

Their liaison, however, was finished. The delicate balance of power did not allow for mistakes. If the younger set didn’t eat him alive, I would.

In any case, my rise to command was ensured. Esset needed someone strong and capable to lead this hunt, and so far I had been appalled and amused in turns at the bungling mess being made of things. No, if Esset truly wanted answers, I was the only one who could provide them.

_[“Find out what he knows, or I will.”]_

I snarled silently at myself. At least, I could do this task if my imagination and memory would stop playing me for a fool. There was no one alive today who had been involved in that butchery, save two. And I, the one, would find the other or go mad trying.

Could that be it, I wondered? The ghost of that crime, calling out for some obscene form of justice?

_[“Bradley, look at me.”]_

_[“Look at me, Bradley!”]_

Damned? Certainly. Willingly, if it would bring me back my star.

I picked up the report and read it again, searching for any whisper of a clue. After admitting the repair crew to my rooms, I studied the photographs of Tokyo streets and shops, and the vine-covered parking garage.

Aside from a few vague mumbles from my circle of clairvoyants and precognitives, I had no evidence that all four men still lived. In my heart, I felt Bradley’s presence; besides, without his calming effect, the telepath would have surely fallen into our clutches by now. Schuldig was desperately under-shielded, prone to relying upon drugs and noise to stay in control. So for that alone, I knew that Brad Crawford was indeed calling the shots.  
   
One of the photos caught my attention, and I returned to it. It showed the street where Schuldig had first been spotted. In the background, shops and people made a touristy clutter that annoyed me. But, something about this scene…

I felt my lips part in a wolfish smile. Make that three members of the team alive and well, then. Schuldig may be a brilliant telepath, but he was nearly illiterate when it came to computers. There would be no good reason for him to be seen alone, near a cyber café in the late evening hours – unless he was playing bodyguard.

I dismissed the idea that Schuldig had been there seeking a replacement. If that had been the case, he would not have been leaving alone, or looking back over his shoulder as he ran.

Of course, this also pointed out the glaring failure of the operatives, since they had no visual fix on the boy.

Once again I reached for the phone.

  
**A/N:**

_“Entschuldigen Sie, bitte, Herr General!”_ – Please excuse me, Herr General!

_“Was?”_ – What?

Okay, my apologies in advance, but when I first started writing this chapter my brain went…somewhere silly. Here is the _original_ version of the opening of Chapter 5:

_My fist connected with cheekbone, sending a thrill up my arm and sending the other man to the floor. “You fool!” I snarled down at him, resisting the urge to kick. “How could your men be so clumsy? Now they know beyond any doubt that we have agents searching for them!”_

_The report trembled in my left hand even as my right clenched and unclenched, wanting to wrap around the idiot’s throat and squeeze. Four ops confirmed a positive sighting of the telepath Schuldig in Tokyo. Four TP operatives who should have been able to net him with little difficulty. And they had let him slip through their fingers._

_“Tell me why I should not kill you!”_

_“Excuse me, Lord Vader!”_


	6. Chapter 6

**6\. – Mine**

Smoke trailed from the muzzle of my gun as I lowered my hand. Any doubt as to who was now in charge had just been extinguished.

To my right, Mendez knelt at Garrick’s side, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

“Will he live?” I asked, not looking at them.

“I’m not out of the game yet, Konrad,” Garrick rasped. “Just tell me this was worth it!”

“Oh, it was worth it, all right.” I gazed around at the carnage and nodded. “We are one layer closer to the Inner Circle of Esset, gentlemen. And once we have apprehended the rogue team, our rise to power will be unstoppable.” The words spilled from my tongue like blood, though insincere. Empty promises of empty power. Still, they were the words I was expected to say, so I said them, thinking only of my star.

Edelmann had betrayed his potential as a useful tool, showing only his incompetence to the last. I’d had hopes for the boy, I truly had, but this fiasco in Japan was the last straw. His strategy had not only failed, but he had allowed Schwarz to measure its opposition, and that could simply not be allowed. Crawford was far too intelligent to miss the clues, and once he had a better idea of just how intensive the search would be, he would find a way to vanish like fog at daybreak.

“Konrad, you’re a lousy liar,” Mendez murmured, looking up from his work. “If you were so ambitious, why did you allow yourself to rot away at this damnable post? You had an offer from Prague, for God’s sake – yet you stayed. If you won’t bother with the truth, at least give me silence.”

My lip curled in a sneer, and for one moment I considered the pistol in my hand.

“You do, and you have no allies,” Mendez growled. “Never forget, I know you.”

I sighed and bowed my head. “Well spoken, my friend. All right, silence it is.”

Garrick laughed weakly. “You bastard.”

“Did I ever claim to be otherwise?”

::Once, but not to us,:: Mendez whispered into my head.

_::Raus!::_ I glared at him. “Don’t do that again.”

“So who’s going to clean up this mess?” Garrick asked. “I’d love to assist, but I seem to be a little laid up at the moment.”

I kicked one of the bodies out of my way as I strode toward the telephone. “This is General Schoenberg,” I stated to the switchboard operator. “We need a phase-one cleaning crew to Edelmann’s office. Oh, and prepare a new nameplate. Yes. Mine.” A brief tremor of concern touched my mind, and I added, “And send a healer.”

Mendez closed his eyes as if thanking me. My anger at him had faded now, in our mutual concern. Garrick was a good man, if any of us could claim that title, and it would grieve us both to lose him.

Apparently he was not only a good man, but stubborn as well. Garrick showed no outward distress, even when the healer began working on him. The repair of torn arteries is not a pleasant process, especially since there was no anesthetic for field surgery. Rosenkreuz had lost a majority of its medical supplies in those first few days of chaos, and had not yet been able to replace most of it.

I watched impassively as the cleaning crew removed the bodies and scrubbed blood from the walls and floor. One young man searched for bullets in the woodwork, sensing them with his gift and pulling them out in a tiny shower of splinters. The cleanup took less than half an hour.  
   
As Garrick medicated himself with a glass of whiskey, he repeated his question. “So, Konrad, was this coup worth it? What are you after?”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “I want my star back.” I glared at my two associates and amended my statement: “I will bring them back. These fools had no idea who they were dealing with.”

“Do you mean Crawford, or yourself?” Garrick’s gaze bored into me; I could almost feel it heating my skin.

Mendez held out his hand to silence both of us. “Wait, this is all wrong. Konrad, you have just taken out the interim director of Rosenkreuz, and his staff – and we helped you do it. All of this on your claim that you alone can find that rogue team and bring it to justice. How do you think Esset will view this?”

I smiled coldly and said, “They have a habit of rewarding acts of ambition and power, Mendez. I suspect they will send us all the aid we ask of them. We’ll be able to rebuild Rosenkreuz, resume training, and bring honor back to this facility.” A dirty chuckle escaped my throat and I added, “What’s not to love about that? Tell me, my friend, you’re not having second thoughts, are you? Third thoughts, perhaps?”

“Konrad, think, man!” Garrick muttered, easing himself into one of the few intact chairs. “You brought us in on this on the assumption that we were only taking down Edelmann and his two aides. Two aides, not the whole damn staff!”

“They didn’t know anything useful. Did they, Mendez?” I watched my ‘friends’ closely now. All too often throughout the history of Esset, three allies had a tendency to become two.

The telepath shook his head. “No, Konrad, they did not. It’s still more wasteful than Esset generally approves of.”

“But necessary. You have both worked with me before; they had not. You understand my methods, and my goals.” I poured myself a glass of the whiskey and took a sip. “You will not question those methods, or goals. Will you.”

Garrick sighed. “No, Konn, I know better. You have your reasons, and my trust.”

“And mine,” Mendez added, though his voice was thoughtfully soft.

“Good,” I said, sitting back and resting my feet on the desk. I looked around at my new office, the command center of Rosenkreuz, and smiled. For too long I had lived in my orbit around this place, secure in my delusions and content to wait. Then the strands of my life had shown themselves to be wound about sticks like a marionette’s, and my dreams had burned away.

And now, in the coolness of a brave new world, my dreams had crept from the ashes and begun to live again.

Somewhere out there, beyond my reach at the moment, Bradley Crawford and his team knew they were being hunted. Whether the lunatic was with them or no, he still had his telepath, and I was willing to bet he still had the boy as well. Knowing Crawford’s luck, I believed the team intact, madman and all.

And they would be his downfall.

Garrick cleared his throat. “Your next move, then?”

A stray droplet of whiskey clung to the edge of my glass. Absently I licked it off. “Somewhere in this mess, there should be some information on Kritiker. If there isn’t, though, I won’t be highly surprised. Still, I favor that lead at this time. It will take some work to find what we need, but I believe our answers will be there.”

“How are your clairsentients working out?” Mendez asked as he rummaged through files and folders, looking for anything useful.

I snorted a nasty little laugh. “They’re dropping like flies. I wish I had some way of knowing if their turbulence is having any effect at all. If it is, Crawford must be running at the edge of his own endurance, or close to it.”

“You’re willing to risk his sanity?” Garrick asked.

Raising my glass in a toast, I stated, “Sane or not, I will bring him home.”

  
**A/N:**

_::Raus!::_ – ::Get out!::

I had a Surreal Moment with this chapter. When I typed “Inner Circle of Esset”, my handy-dandy Microsoft Word put a little dotted underline under part of it. I clicked on the underline, and this is what it said:

Address: Inner Circle

Display Map

Display Driving Directions…

Remove this Smart Tag

Smart Tag Options…

Anyone else feel kind of creeped out over this?


	7. Chapter 7

**7\. – Courted**

  
Late summer sunlight painted the courtyard in gold. I watched from beside the doorway as a squad of trainees jogged past, their young instructor chiding their sloppy form. I could only agree, they did look ragged.

As there were damn few students worth the effort anymore, I debated postponing my review of the facility. The survivors of the purge were, for the most part, either too devious or too cowardly to be of much use to me. Still, I had always conducted reviews in August, and could not convince myself that I had earned a respite this time.

August. A third of a year gone since the loss of the Elders, and we had no useful leads. I did not allow this to worry me overmuch; as of yet, I had not been informed of whom, precisely, I should report to in this matter, so I waited, and conducted the search on my own terms. With any luck, something would break and by the time Esset held me accountable, I would have the prize in hand. On a whim, I decided to pay a brief visit to my crew of clairsentients.

For the past two months, they had been virtually living on coffee, sugar, and tobacco. The main room they worked in smelled of stale smoke, fried pastries, and sweat. I made my way around the desks and tables, their meditating captains unaware of my passing. Uneven stacks of notes threatened to fly loose in my wake. With casual disregard, I picked up one sheet at random and glanced at it. The handwriting was atrocious, a frantic, hurried scribble, but its message was clear enough: _they’re not in Japan anymore_.

Out of curiosity, I tried a few other notes, harvested at random and read as I walked. _They will die in a blizzard in the Alps this winter. They will vanish in the east. They have allies we know nothing about._

Could these all be true, or were my clairvoyants Seeing through a self-inflicted haze? The chaos that they might cause to a precognitive, was it affecting them as well? I suspected as much, rather than allow the possibility that there was no effect at all.

I moved to set the papers down and stopped, my gaze drawn to the notebook of the young woman sitting nearest to the door. She alone had watched me make my circuit of the room, and in fact still stared, but her hand moved rapidly across the paper, the pencil nearly squeaking in its haste. At the end of its message, her hand went limp, allowing the pencil to drop free and roll to the floor.

Since I was the main motivator for the search in the first place, my presence could have inspired her vision. I carefully tore the page from her book.

_The past is the key to the future. The dead do not forget – do not forget the dead. You do not know as much as you think you do…Kort._

“Why did you write this?” I snarled, fear stealing my reason. “Who told you to write this?”

The woman whispered, “Mach die Tür auf und komm rein…”

A name clawed its way from my throat. “Erich.” Unwilling to stay in this room of ghosts and their confidants, I hurried to confer with my trusted allies, the note still clutched in my fist.

Mendez read in silence, one eyebrow betraying when he reached the name at the end. “She could have overheard it,” he offered, handing the note back to me. “He wasn’t exactly subtle, you recall.”

“He’s right, Konn,” Garrick stated with a shrug. “She could have picked it up anywhere – even from your own mind.”

“Ah, but the admonition to open the door and come in,” I murmured, pausing in my pacing to turn and regard Mendez with a hungry look. “You worked with Erich, didn’t you?”

“God, don’t remind me,” the telepath growled. “Really, Konrad, I think you’re going in the wrong direction here.”

“Am I?” I leaned in closer to him and stated, “There is one way to find out. That apartment has been sealed off since his death, all dealings with it locked away as classified. But none of that matters now! Don’t you see? There is no one here to prosecute us should we break that seal and have a look around.”

“You make it sound like raiding a mummy’s tomb,” Garrick half-laughed. “Really, man!”

“We all knew Erich well enough to know that he would take his secrets to the grave,” I whispered. “He did not know us well enough to predict we would become grave robbers. Are you with me, or no?”

Mendez shook his head. “I’ll go with you, Konrad, but as for whether I am with you… I’m not sure I even know where that is at the moment.”

Garrick shrugged. “What do you expect to find, Konn? What could possibly be in that room that would make the slightest difference now?”

Bradley’s innocence, perhaps? My own? I couldn’t answer his question, so I said nothing.

As we each had other work to attend to, we agreed to meet in front of Erich Sonndheim’s apartment at twenty-two hundred. Time crawled by, seeming to stand still whenever I glanced at a clock. With a start I realized I was excited – I hadn’t pulled a stunt like this in a very long time. Indeed, never had I done anything quite the same; all my sneaking had been against living obstacles, not ghosts.

Ghosts. One in particular that I had no desire to meet. And I had made up my mind to break into the room of his execution, boarded up these three and a half years now.

Actually, I had made up my mind to goad the other two into breaking and entering, as I had no intention of touching anything in that apartment, gloves or no.

I found myself in front of that door several minutes early, drawn there by I know not what. My hands began to sweat within the gloves, and I fought down a shudder. Erich Sonndheim had possessed such power, such dark charisma, that it had taken me three years to feel safe enough to dismantle his surveillance devices in my own home. People still avoided this corridor, they had moved their offices to other halls, leaving this corner of the facility isolated and unobserved. It would be the perfect place for a murder, for it had been so, many times.

Like a nervous student, I found myself staring at the door, the last barrier between my world, and his. The once-polished wood had grown dark and dimmed. Upon its face it bore three metal artifacts: the nameplate, the doorknob assembly, and a sturdy steel loop affixed directly above the lock. Through that loop ran a length of heavy chain, itself bolted to either side of the door frame. The measures were unusual, extreme even for Rosenkreuz, but someone had deemed them necessary.

For one terrible moment I wondered if they had removed the body first.

Footsteps to my right heralded the arrival of my associates. I composed myself and greeted them. Garrick had brought an electric lantern and a video camera. Mendez carried a heavy-duty bolt cutter, which he offered to me.

“Ah, no, my friend,” I demurred. “That would be your specialty.”

Mendez raised an eyebrow and lowered the bolt cutter. “Just because I know where to find the tools does not make me a specialist at espionage, Konrad.”

“Nevertheless, I suggest you get busy,” I stated, taking up a position against the opposite wall and watching him coolly.

The telepath exchanged a look with Garrick, then set the massive shears against the chain. He paused. “What if it’s booby-trapped?”

I smiled sharply. “Then I suppose all our worries will soon be over.”

Mendez braced himself, then pulled on the meter-long handles. The snapping of the steel link echoed off the walls like a gunshot, followed immediately by the clattering rush of chain spilling through the loop to hang twitching from its metal tether.

Garrick pushed the door inward.

My breath caught in my throat, held there by a wash of panic that I’d anticipated, yet still managed to fall prey to. This room had not changed, and I was nineteen again, young and green and barely more than naïve.

“This is your show, Konrad,” Mendez whispered, his voice low in this place of the dead.

I shook myself out of the past and strode forward.

Garrick turned on the lights as we went, and was twice greeted with a loud pop and the sudden absence of light. Soon we had all usable lamps engaged, which only managed to throw the room into a twilight glow. I would almost have preferred to just use the lantern

I followed my shadow along one wall. There was the bar, still partially stocked. Even the scavengers here avoided the opened bottles, with good reason. I had seen Erich drink directly from the bottle from time to time, and furthermore…

_[I am nineteen, a junior staff member at Rosenkreuz, very much aware of the differences between myself and those who rose through the ranks at this facility. Administrator Erich Sonndheim has invited me here, to this room, to drink with him._

_Erich watches me look around the room. He watches me walk. He watches me smile as he pours the schnapps and hands me my glass. He watches my mouth as I raise the glass to my lips._

_Some whisper of instinct, some hint felt through the glove, I don’t know what, but I refuse his drink. I refuse his drink, and his eyes turn hard. So I hadn’t imagined it – I _had_ seen anticipation and lust in his eyes, but now those glimmers have gone cold, replaced with hatred._

_As I flee his apartment, I can’t help think that I have just dodged yet another bullet in my life…]_

“Konrad!” Mendez called out softly. “What are you doing?”

I stopped short of the door and rounded on the speaker. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I snarled. “I’m getting some goddamn air.”

Outside, I leaned against the far wall and tried to catch my breath. The room smelled like a crypt, dusty and forgotten and full of whispers. A stench of whispers? I fought down the urge to laugh, for that kind of laughter heralds madness. Instead, I took a few more breaths then strode back into Sonndheim’s apartment.

Mendez and Garrick had accumulated a stack of folders and loose papers, along with a few video tapes and computer discs. I frowned, wondering what might be on the tapes and yet not wanting to find out.

But, this had all been too easy. There had to be something here… I tried to think like Sonndheim, though it made the bile rise in my gullet. He couldn’t expect me to be here, rummaging through whatever things Security might have left behind after his death – could he? He’d always been several steps ahead of me, no matter the situation. With the exception of that one time, when I’d refused his hospitality, at any rate.

My eyes followed the lines of the walls toward the bedroom door. The one place I swore I would never go – if I were Erich Sonndheim, that is where I would hide something of interest.

With determined steps, I strode toward that door, and turned the handle.

It was locked.

  
**A/N:**

Yes, the title is a bit of a pun.

_“Mach die Tür auf und komm rein…”_ – “Open the door and come in…” Said the spider to the fly.


	8. Chapter 8

**8\. – Masquerade**

At my direction, Garrick forced the lock with his talent. I would have done this myself, but I didn’t trust myself not to shatter the door into toothpicks. The door to Erich Sonndheim’s bedroom swung inward on surprisingly silent hinges.

The room smelled like an abattoir.

Mendez and I covered our faces and followed Garrick inside. None of us was prepared for what met our eyes when Garrick located the light switch.

A mummified body lay across the foot of the unmade bed, its right ankle shackled to the bedpost. Fine golden curls still capped the darkened skull, itself misshapen as though it had been struck with a heavy object.

“Jesus, Konn!” Garrick breathed.

“God, who was that?” Mendez muttered against his sleeve.

I could only shake my head. “I…don’t know.” Suddenly I knew that my hunch would pay off, that somewhere in this mausoleum waited a message, a clue, meant only for me. Of what, I could not say. But clearly, Erich had wanted someone to find this body, and I was the only one who would care to look.

While my fellows tried to decipher the mystery corpse, I set about searching for that which had brought me here. Erich Sonndheim had been cruel and prone to gloating; I half expected this whole thing to be some kind of post-mortem joke at my expense. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he had something of importance to my current situation, some intelligence about Crawford’s team, perhaps: some damning photographs, anything I could use to find them and turn them against their leader. For, without his team, Bradley would be mine.

As I passed by the foot of the bed, my reflection echoed in a massive antique mirror hanging upon the wall. I paused; something was not right. I turned to study the mirror more closely. The gilt frame had become quite tarnished, and cigar smoke residue clung to the scrollwork in a dark amber film. The lower right corner of the glass showed only a patchy and discolored reflection, the backing having eroded away decades ago. But instead of either darkness or the inside of a frame, I could swear I saw…paper. Paper, yellowed with age or smoke or both, and torn along one side.

I reached up and tentatively checked the frame for a weak spot, but the whole thing seemed fused together. I grasped the frame and tested the secureness of its mounting: it did not move, and I found it damn difficult to gain purchase on the slimy wood. My jaw clenched as I recognized the trap for what it was. The framed mirror must weigh at least twenty kilograms, by my estimate, and there was no way I could remove it from the wall without first removing my gloves. I could hear Sonndheim laughing even now.

“All right, you son of a bitch,” I snarled softly, “we’ll play it your way. I did it once, I’ll do it as many times as I have to.” With quick, decisive jerks, I tugged the gloves from my hands, tucked them into my jacket, then braced myself for what I was about to do.

_[“Herr General, perhaps your guests have had enough of your posturing today. This is not a formal inspection, after all._

_“Indeed, some might find your affectation pompous.”_

_“Indeed, you say?” I reply, my lip curling in a snarl. Behind the speakers I could see Herr Sonndheim, watching me yet again._

_“Unless, of course, you have a more interesting reason for keeping your hands covered in polite company?”_

_There is no question about what is meant by this. Everyone knows that object readers must wear their gloves or risk overload and madness, and I am not listed as an object reader. If I were discovered to be one, the repercussions would be dire: one does not lie to Esset, and withholding a personal secret is considered lying._

_I ask my honored guests for their indulgence and proceed to strip off my right glove. With an air of impatience at such a petty interruption, I slam my palm flat against the wall. “Satisfied?”_

_My life depends on my maintaining an annoyed and haughty mask in spite of the agony burning through my arm. My accusers must watch my face, not my hand; if they notice that I kept my fingers from making contact with the stone, they will know I am bluffing._

_No one speaks. Sonndheim himself is frowning as though trying to puzzle out just how he has made such a crucial mistake._

_Keeping that same impatient air, I pull my hand back from the wall and inspect my palm for dirt. I draw a handkerchief from my pocket, wipe at my soiled hand, and slip the glove back on with a highborn grimace._

_The show is over, and I keep my life.]_

And now I realized the truth: he _had_ known. Though he couldn’t seem to decipher the trick, he knew I’d somehow gotten around that trap without proving my innocence at all.

I could order Garrick or Mendez to deal with the mirror, but I needed them to find out about that corpse. Besides, I didn’t want them to suspect my hidden gift; keeping secrets from Esset meant keeping them from friends as well.

But more even than that: if there was something in behind that mirror, it belonged to me, and I was not about to allow anyone else to intercept it.

I took as deep a breath as I could manage and reached for the mirror frame.

_Painlustdreadterrorclimax_– my hand jerked away from the gilded wood as if it had been electrocuted. Sweat beaded on my upper lip, trickled down to tease my tongue with salt. I glanced at my cohorts. They had gotten the manacle unhooked from the bed, and now proceeded to methodically search the room, starting with the bed and closet. I had maybe five minutes before they wondered what was taking me so long.

Steeling my nerve, I reached up and grasped the mirror firmly at either side._ Coldburningbloodcomescreambegpleadwhisper_ – something inside of me threatened to shake loose if I didn’t break contact.

I concentrated on lifting the mirror from the wall, wondering for a moment why I didn’t just use my authorized talent instead of my vulnerable hands. “The son of a bitch challenged me,” I growled at myself in reply.

Ignoring the pain and the sweat and the fear, I lifted the frame clear of its wall mount. Impossible sensations swarmed through my nerves, causing me to nearly drop the damned mirror as the past infringed on my existence, superimposing others’ lives upon mine.

For a quarter of a century, this mirror had faced his bed, borne silent witness to his depravity. For one terrible moment I was possessed by a thousand screaming boys, and by the memory of Erich Sonndheim.

“You idiot, that thing must weigh a ton!” Garrick took hold of the frame and guided it to the floor. I followed his lead with a powerful numbness of the soul.

He regarded me with concern and said, “You look like you pulled something. Are you all right?”

I nodded, allowing my hands to slip free from the wood. “Damn heavy,” I whispered, trying to forget.

_The dead do not forget…_

“What possessed you to take that thing down, anyway?” Mendez asked, joining us by the bureau.

At his choice of words, that wild laughter threatened to come up again, and again I forced it back. Possessed indeed. Now it didn’t matter so much what they found or what I found, I just wanted to get the hell out of there. “I thought I saw something, behind the glass. There, where the silver’s gone thin.”

Mendez produced a multi-function pocket knife and tipped the frame forward. With an injunction for us to hold the pane when it came free, he set about separating the frame from the glass. As easily as if he did this for a living, he undid the tiny screws holding the mirror back in place, then tugged the frame loose.

Garrick propped up the glass while I reached between it and the frame. The lower right corner of the mirror had indeed lost some of its coating, and my hand showed through ghostly pale as my fingers closed on a thin sheaf of papers. I had to peel them from where they’d stuck to the glass, creating a Rorschach image: half in reverse in the mirror and half in a random spackling of tin upon the page.

As my comrades moved the unwieldy mirror and frame safely out of the way, I stared at the pages in my still-bare hand. _Laughtertriumphsatisfactionhatredhatredlust_ – all in Erich Sonndheim’s handwriting.

_“If you are reading this, then it seems that I _may_ have underestimated you, Kort old man. Congratulations.”_

  
**A/N:**

About that mirror… Until the early 1900’s, mirrors were made by coating a pane of glass with a thin sheet of tin-mercury amalgam. Over time, the mercury evaporates and the whole reflective coating breaks down, leaving bald spots or blotches, usually discolored or foggy.

Oh, and 20 kilograms is about 45 pounds – not easy to wrestle with a large fragile item and not draw attention to oneself. Especially while wearing crisp cotton gloves.

Clearly Konnor did not know the #1 survival rule for situations involving creepy antique artifacts: Leave It The Fuck Alone. Glowing sword? LITFA! Pretty jewel lit from within? LITFA! Your mortal enemy’s old antique mirror? (Think, man! Mirrors capture the soul!) _LITFA!_

Oh, that’s right – too late on that one, Kort old man.

(Okay, another surreal Microsoft Word moment. I wanted to make sure I was using the right word, so I highlighted “abattoir” and selected “Thesaurus” from the menu. Imagine my surprise when it gave me these options for replacing the unrecognized word: _a barrel of laughs, a barrel of monkeys, abase, abase yourself, abased, abases, abash, abashed, abasing, abate, abated, abates, abating, abbreviate, abbreviated, abbreviates, abbreviating, abbreviation, abbreviations, ABC, abdicate, abdicated, abdicates, abdicating, abdication, _and _abdications_)


	9. Chapter 9

**9\. – Beckon**

I wandered from the bedroom crypt into the main room, within clear sight of the exit. Mendez and Garrick humored me, allowing me to read the letter without distraction. For indeed, it was a letter – a missive from the dead, addressed to me.

_“If you are reading this, then it seems that I _may_ have underestimated you, Kort old man. Congratulations._

_“How long has it been, now? Ten years? Twenty? Not since my demise, of course, for, as we both know, there is no way in hell that you would be holding my diary were I still among the living. (You _are_ holding it, aren’t you? Good man.)”_

A diary? I looked closer. The small pages were unlined, faded ivory in color and ragged-edged on the left side as though they had been torn out of a book. What might a man like Erich Sonndheim keep in a diary, for the love of God?

_“No, how long has it been since _that_ day – you can’t have forgotten? The day I took everything from you. Everything you deemed worth living for.”_

I could hear his voice whisper those words, as though he stood right behind me. I could even feel his foul breath upon my neck. My eyes closed, whether in supplication to the dead or in prayer even I did not know. In that moment, the face I saw in my mind was not Erich’s, but Bradley’s. Not yet sixteen, and begging for his life.

No – begging for _his_ life.

I opened my eyes; the pages rustled with the tremor in my hand. I glanced around, verified my privacy, then continued reading.

_“Ah, so you _do_ remember. Very good. It would be tragic for you to find your mind slipping. Some things should never be forgotten – the dead, of course, forget nothing, and forgive even less._

_“Did you train the boy at last? Did he bend to your will, or to your whip, perhaps? Or, did you continue to bend for him?”_

“Bastard!” I whispered, choking back the tears. “You know nothing!” With effort, I read further. It was as though the letter wrote itself in response to my thoughts, for the next statement chilled me to the core:

_“Never pretend that I do not know your most precious secrets, dearest Kort. Or should I say ‘Rudi’?”_

“Oh, dear God…” I read the rest of it in a blur, unable now to stop.

_“Oh, yes, I know all about Berlin. Grant too. You should have picked more reliable friends. As I write this, he is still with us, posing as a teacher of linguistics while carrying on his sentimentalist subversions. Just like Davies. I swear, there must be only three kinds of instructors here: the soft rebels, the loyal agents…and you, my dear Kort. You are in a category all your own._

_“I suspect that Grant at least may have had the balls to shoot me before things ever went that far._

_“Can it be that you were indecisive? That the spirit was willing but the action lacking? Perhaps you simply could not prioritize? True, you preserved your own life, but at what cost?_

_“Are you sleeping well these days?_

_“Oh, I’m sorry, you _were_ sleeping well, weren’t you – until you read this._

_“Dearest Kort. ‘Rudi’. Been to Berlin lately? I suspect you must be aching, if you have not been. And after pinning all your hopes on your ‘star’ – so sad. Did your prize student turn out to be not what you expected? Does he despise you for what you have done?_

_“Does he prefer women?_

_“Pity. He was quite the handsome boy. I may still have some film of him, I shall have to check._

_“I could have been your dearest ally, but I am no longer bitter. What was mine is now yours, in all things. I trust you will make good use of my resources. Know that you have them with my blessing, and my most sincere encouragement._

_“But search quickly. Some things do not die easy, and your worst fear is ever close by your side. You refused my embrace when I could have changed your life; now in death I leave you to the beast of your own creation._

_“You should never have denied me, Kort.”_

“You all right?” Mendez asked, pausing on his way to the door.

“Yes,” I whispered, no longer sure that my mask held, and not caring. “I’m fine.”

“I think we’re done here,” Mendez told me, “I can’t stand the smell anymore. We did find a padlock, for the chain.”

“I’ll stay,” I murmured, glancing at my friend, then back at the pages in my hand. “For a while. Leave the lock where I can find it. I’ll take care of securing the room.

“You certain, Konn?” Garrick sounded concerned, and I realized I must have looked a sight.

In fact, I felt I must look as though I had just seen a ghost, which was not all that far from the truth. “Yes, Garrick, I’m certain. If you want to help any more tonight, figure out what to do with that body. Any idea who he was?”

Mendez answered for him. “Not a clue. But from what I can tell, he wasn’t beaten much, and his hands were in fine shape. Died from a crushing blow to the head.”

“No uniform? No pass?” I asked, intrigued in spite of myself.

“Nothing. It’s as though he lived here.”

“Or, after Erich died, they reclaimed the uniform for recycling,” Garrick offered.

“But why secure the bedroom afterward? It was locked from the inside,” Mendez reminded us.

“If I find anything of interest, I’ll include you,” I promised them both. “Meanwhile, see if there’s anything in the administrative records about this boy – it was a boy, wasn’t it?” Though the mummified body was quite well preserved, I had avoided looking too closely.

Garrick rolled his eyes. “Chained naked to Sonndheim’s bed? You know it’s not a girl, Konn.”

I nodded, still distracted. “Ah, right. What shall we do with it, then?”

“I know what Erich would do with it,” Mendez stated with lewd inflection.

“Gentlemen, lest any of us forget,” I stated firmly, “Herr Sonndheim is no longer with us. In any form or manner. His ghost can torment that pitiful shell no more. I suggest we remove the body to medical for an autopsy and possible identification.”

“In other words,” Garrick observed, “you suggest that _we_ remove the body while _you_ stay here and commune with the dead.”

“Need I remind you that I hold trance mediums in high scorn, my friend?” I forced a smile and said, “Get Mendez out of here before he pukes.”

The two fashioned a sort of sling out of bed linens and strung it between them, its fragile payload nestled in the ivory folds. I saw a last glimpse of golden curls and one delicate hand before Garrick and Mendez vanished down the hallway with their grisly cargo.

I returned my attention to the diary pages, re-reading them in search of some clue. Ashen laughter echoed from the paper, made my skin ache. I had become quite convinced that Erich Sonndheim knew far more than he should have known, more than he had any right of access to. Some of that information must surely have bearing on Bradley Crawford’s team.

Or on Hernandez…

My jaw tightened, and I had to restrain myself from crushing the pages into a knot. The inquest had been closed, formally and irrevocably. The thought that Sonndheim might have been withholding evidence just didn’t make sense.

Unless… I scanned the last page again, found the passage that at first made too little sense, and now threatened to make too much. Filled with superstitious dread and an equally powerful need to hear my own voice, I read the words aloud. “But search quickly. Some things do not die easy, and your worst fear is ever close by your side.”

A soft creak whispered from the doorway. I flinched, reaching for my pistol as I whirled toward the sound.

Nothing there.

Forcing my attention away from the door, I regarded the letter once again. As though reading an incantation, the sort that is disastrous to leave only half-spoken, I finished the passage in a whisper. “You refused my embrace when I could have changed your life; now in death I leave you to the beast of your own creation. You should never have denied me…”

The hairs on the back of my neck stirred, dared me to turn – or not to turn: both options seemed equally absurd, and equally compelling. I carefully folded the pages and slipped them into a pocket, then drew my gun and turned toward the door yet again.

Still nothing.

That feeling of menace did not recede, it merely moved with me, taunting me with poltergeist hatred. I set my gun down on the desk and put my gloves back on, finally, wearily; my hands were sweaty and trembling.

I realized that my heart was pounding as though I had been running. It was time to leave this place.

The padlock waited patiently beside my pistol, its latch open but without a key to reopen it should I have the need. I really didn’t want to use bolt cutters every damn time; someone was bound to notice the damaged chain, and I had no desire to explain my actions here. Moving with rapid determination, I began searching for the key. Surely the man had one: it didn’t make sense for him to keep an opened padlock without having the matching key somewhere.

I tried the drawers of the desk first, since that would be where I would keep such a thing. The wide drawer opened easily, sliding forward with a rattle of pencils and paper clips, and the unsteady rolling of a bottle of correction fluid. But no keys.

And no diary.

This wasn’t about the damn diary, I reminded myself. I needed a key, and I needed to get the hell out of here.

The next likely drawer was, of course, locked. I focused my power on the mechanism and twisted; it opened with a soft click. Impatient, I hauled the drawer open.

A great sliding clatter greeted my effort, and I sidestepped, cursing. The damn thing could have been booby-trapped, and I would have just triggered it without a second thought. Panting harshly, I looked into the drawer for the source of the noise.

Glitters of silver and brass outlined a mass of keys, strung together on a lanyard. The occasional paper clip or safety pin dropped out as I lifted my prize with a sense of awe. I’d never seen so many keys in one place before, and the experience was weirder than I would have supposed.

Hoping that the one I needed would be among the tangle, I turned the padlock over and looked for a maker’s mark or a number or some such. Finding it, I began searching through the keys for a large brass one with a diamond logo. The irony of this struck me while I worked, and my teeth gnashed. Diamond indeed. I located a likely candidate, and tried it.

Amazingly enough, I now had a mated pair of key and lock. I smiled at my good fortune, dismissing the thought of traps for a little while longer. I collected my pistol and the lantern, then headed for the door. Now that I controlled the padlock, I could return at my leisure to search for that damn diary. I didn’t even question when I had decided to do this, I merely took it for granted that I would indeed return; how could I not?

But for tonight, I was done. I’d spent more time in that apartment now than I had wanted to, and I had to get out and back into territory more friendly to me.

As I fastened the door with the heavy chain across it, the relief that passed through me left my knees shaking. I leaned against the wall and stuffed the mess of keys into an empty pocket in my jacket, allowing myself time for the reaction to pass. Though I’d never suffered from claustrophobia, being in there had certainly given me a taste of it.

Claustrophobia…

Wait a moment – given the choice of a small space or a large one, which will the phobic take without conscious thought?

Whether it had been his intention or not, I thanked the ghost of Sonndheim for the inspiration. If my seers were indeed having an effect on Bradley’s visions, perhaps he could be more accurately herded, rather than anticipated. Given the choice of the narrow pass or the open plains, which would he take?

They shall have to be subtle, more so than they have ever been, and it will take some time, but if it works – I shall lead Bradley exactly where I wish to find him.

  
**A/N:**

Does anyone else think the diary is another LITFA sort of thing? Maybe the entire apartment too?

As for why Konnor might use his gift on a desk lock and not on a padlock, the reasons are several. A desk lock is a usually on a single-notch tumbler, easy to pick or merely force, whereas a padlock is more complex. Konnor does not want to waste time standing in the hallway in front of this apartment fiddling with the lock when he could use a key and gain access that much faster.


	10. Chapter 10

**10\. – Wake**

My own apartment door whispered shut behind me, and only then did I admit the relief I felt at being safely home. The night had been altogether too odd, with tauntings from the dead leaving the occasional scrap of unsettling insight in their wake.

I frowned as my nose reacquainted itself with the familiar scents of my apartment and told me that I was distinctly out-of-line. When one finds a foul odor, it’s customary to blame whatever one may have stepped in, but in this case I had wallowed in it full-scale. The stink of ancient cigars, lingering death, and dust surrounded me in an almost tangible cloud. I was tempted to consign my clothing to the incinerator, but I realized with a start that I would quickly go through quite a number of uniforms if I did so, for I intended to go back – as many times as it took to find my answers.

I certainly didn’t want any questions raised by the laundry detail should I get in the habit of sending them clothing more suited to tomb raiding than civil wear. The only reasonable thing to do would be to use the same uniform for each visit, and do most of the cleaning of it myself. The thought of it made my skin crawl, but I had to admit it was my best option. I did keep an assortment of sanitizing and deodorizing sprays; hopefully one of them would do the trick.

In any case, I had other things to worry about. A low, insistent beeping drew my attention to the desk, where my answering machine flashed an accusing red wink in time with the sound. I sighed, momentarily torn between checking it now and waiting until I had cleaned up from the evening’s adventure. My nose won: I couldn’t stand my own smell anymore.

I hurriedly stripped for a shower, pausing only to shove my ruined gloves into the trash bin and drop the rest of my clothes in an inelegant heap on the bathroom floor. I scrubbed quickly with the harsh disinfectant soap, hopefully stripping away the stench along with however many layers of skin it took with it.

When I finally felt a bit more human, I dealt with the uniform, spraying it with a strong deodorizer until the fumes made me gag. I turned on the vent fan; it coughed to life, then settled into a steady hum. The beeping of the answering machine called out as I shut the bathroom door behind me. I fetched my bathrobe from my bedroom, grabbed some hand lotion and an old pair of gloves worn to extreme softness, then made for my desk to silence that annoying sound. The lotion soothed my over-washed skin, and the thin cotton gloves promised relief for my over-stressed nerves. Only then, after tending to my hands, did I hit the replay button for my messages.

There was only one.

“General Schoenberg: your presence is required in teleconference. Oh-seven-thirty hours Saturday, eleventh of August, Rosenkreuz Secure Media Room 12B. This order delivered twenty-three-ten hours, Friday, tenth of August, on the authority of Esset, Hapsburg.”

Reflexively I glanced at the clock, and groaned. Not quite seven hours to wait, and no indication of what the conference might be about, much less why I had been summoned. My mind spun with potential disasters. Had we tripped some alarm in Sonndheim’s rooms, alerted someone to our trespass? Had it all been a well-laid trap, just waiting for some damn fool to come along and fall in? Ah, hell!

Or – was there a lead with Crawford’s team? Had they been captured?

Given a choice between the two options, my heart called a distinct preference for the first one. If someone other than me had run Schwarz to ground, I would have no way to safeguard my Bradley, no matter how much I might want to. My authority ran thin these days, and with the shifting winds at the pinnacle of the organization, I didn’t even know from hour to hour whom I might be serving, or who might be engineering yet another change in the weather.

Though my thoughts scampered about chasing shadows, I knew that I couldn’t realistically anticipate a damn thing until it happened, and that wouldn’t be for another seven hours. I would have to be sharp in the morning; I didn’t even know who else might be there, or with whom I would be speaking. I resented performing on the fly. Someone was yanking my leash, and I didn’t appreciate it.

The only thing left for me to do this night was to sleep, if I could. My weary mind slid toward absurdity as I made ready for bed, noting the closed bathroom door and observing how doors had been the singular focus of my evening. Closed, open, bolted shut…

Doors…

_The rough-hewn door offers shelter from the cold, and I enter. Within, a dozen other men huddle over drinks. The bartender smiles and waves as I pass by, on my way to the back of the establishment._

_Another door, black enamel paint. My reflection regards me a moment then dismisses me as not his type. Beyond the black door, a dark room that engages every sense but vision. Hands paw at me, tasting me with their touch. Musk fills my nostrils until I swallow the scent. Rhythm and friction echo off the walls._

_Large hands grip my hips, and I realize I am naked except for my belt, my boots, and my gloves. Leather and linen. The boots are the hallmark of an archetype, a fashion never to fade from desire. The men at this bar like it when I leave the belt on, wide dark leather against fair skin. It gives them something secure to hold onto – and it keeps their fingers from burning my flesh too badly. I crave what I cannot bear, and so I come here…_

_For a moment I know this is a dream – I haven’t been twenty in two decades; but my body doesn’t care. Dream or reality, I’ve missed this._

_Face to the wall, hands braced, legs spread, I invite this stranger to me. He opens me with his fingers, slick with oil, oil that whispers what it has seen, what it intends. It muffles what his skin might say, and for that I am grateful. All I want is release, sweet, hard release, with no complications._

_Then he is in me, pressing me to the wall, and I know that this time I will come, the dream will stay on me until I am done, and I ride it. Whether a memory or a fantasy, it doesn’t matter: the stranger is skilled, and wanting it just as much as I am._

_Close, so close…_

_Something tickles my neck, and I open my eyes to see a flicker of pale blue: the handkerchief I wear in my pocket, my calling card. It tightens around my throat, held there by a stranger’s hands._

_Fear and lust overwhelm me, become one. My climax roars up with grim finality._

_“I’ve been waiting for you, dearest Kort…”_

I awoke flailing, gasping for breath, throwing the covers off and scrambling backward on the bed until my head hit the wall.

Across my belly, the sticky puddle began to cool.

I sat there panting, staring around at my momentarily-unfamiliar room. Pre-dawn light glimmered around my window, drawing my eyes to it but not illuminating a damn thing.

On my nightstand, the alarm clock blared to life. Oh-six-hundred. My heart finally began to slow to its normal pace as I fumbled for the clock and the lamp. And the tissues. I tossed my slept-in gloves next to the clock, wiped up my misplaced enthusiasm, then checked the bedding for spillage. I wanted a shower. I wanted to clear my head before that conference.

I wanted my life back.

The bathroom door was shut, which baffled me for a moment until I remembered why. The vent fan hummed tirelessly on the other side, and I groaned. My shower probably smelled like Erich’s bedroom, unless the spray had worked a miracle during the night. With no small amount of trepidation, I opened the door.

The air in the bathroom was chill and smelled rather antiseptic, a nostril-scorching smell right out of the can but mercifully dissipated now. On closer inspection, I found that the fibers of my uniform still stank faintly of time and dust and sweat. Couldn’t hang it with the rest of my clothes, or everything would reek. I hung it on the door hook for the moment, locked the door and commenced with my shower.

Amazing how long it had taken me to adjust to leaving the light on for this. It had been such a regular part of my life, to lock the door and shut off the light before stripping to bathe. And now I slept nude again, and walked through my apartment without a care.

But still I locked the door.

The night before I had been too distracted, had forgotten. Was that a good thing?

It didn’t matter at the moment. I had a short time in which to bathe, dress, and eat something before going into a high-security teleconference the purpose of which I couldn’t begin to guess.

For all I knew, they were about to order my execution.

I decided to wear my dress uniform just in case.

  
**A/N – Wake**

A brief gay culture note – the particular shade of light blue handkerchief advertises “Rudi’s” willingness to perform oral sex, while the boots, belt, and gloves hint at a uniform fetish and an appreciation for rough handling. As a younger man, he took it any way they would give it to him, and the dream tells much.


	11. Chapter 11

**11\. – Complicate**

  
For one brief moment, I almost reacted. Almost.

As the door to the secure media room opened, I found two men waiting within. Two telepaths. One was a young, ambitious fellow with a lean and hungry look about him; if I recalled correctly, he had just been assigned to an Omega team, which did not bode at all well.

The other was Mendez.

I turned my surprise into a frown and glanced at my watch. Behind me the door shut with a gentle hiss. I was several minutes early; were there others yet to come? Taking a seat at one of the console screens, I asked the two this very question, not directing it to either in particular.

“I was instructed to prepare a teleconference with three secure uplinks,” Mendez stated, his tone bland. “I would presume we are it, then.”

Though my mind tried to defy me, I forced it to the calm, still, reflective pool that I needed it to be. Summoned to a private conference with two telepaths in attendance – someone was either testing them, or testing me. Or both. Bloody hell. And I couldn’t confer with Mendez without the other fellow knowing about it. At least the waiting should be over soon enough.

The viewscreen before me flickered, steadied to show the Esset royal seal emblazoned in gold upon a scarlet curtain. I leaned back in my seat and made myself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

A young man I did not recognize came into view, wearing a crisp uniform and a wireless headset. “Good morning, Rosenkreuz. The meeting will commence in three minutes.”

“Good morning, Hapsburg,” Mendez replied, adjusting his own headset and moving the microphone a little closer to his mouth. “General Konrad Schoenberg, Alberto Mendez, and Roderik Johannsen in attendance, at your request.”

I found myself idly watching Johannsen. My first impression held out: he had the seeming of a weasel with a mouthful of someone else’s breakfast. The only question remaining was his role today, for that would tell me my own. I could only presume that Mendez was to be the technical mediator, as he would be listening to a secure channel monitoring the entire conference. The signal would be fed through a relay station, encrypted, and sent on with a four-second gap. Mendez and the Hapsburg operator would listen to not only the discussion, but also any instructions from the relay station. At the first sign of interception, the link would be severed. The chance of such was unlikely, but it went against everything Esset stood for to take that chance. Secrecy was all-important.

The picture on my screen shrank to a small corner, allowing two new windows to dominate the view. One showed a shrewd-looking man with narrow features and a well-etched frown; I recognized him as Pfalzgraf Hodert of Prague. The other showed a dimly-lit room, nothing more.

“Gentlemen, we have confirmation,” Mendez stated. “Relay station informs we are clear. Hapsburg, do you concur?”

“We are clear, Rosenkreuz. Herr Hodert, your conference is ‘go’.”

“Thank you.” The narrow-faced man’s voice matched his appearance, thin and taut. “Good morning, Herr General. How is the weather your side of the divide today?”

I was most certainly not in the mood for small talk. I tried not to sound too peevish as I replied, “As always, it depends on the nature of the wind, Herr Pfalzgraf.”

To my dismay, Hodert smiled, a hard and calculated thinning of the lips. So I was right: I was the one being tested this day. “Let’s get right to the point, Konrad. I am highly concerned that your methods have become unsound of late. Prague had very specific hopes for your clairsentience interference project, long-term hopes that we dared share with those in highest authority.”

The image of that dimly-lit room suddenly made sense to me. Johannsen scowled slightly as my shields wavered in surprise. Our sixth attendee, then: none other than the royal house of Hapsburg itself.

“But we have learned,” Hodert continued, “that it simply is not reliable. That is the only possible explanation, unless you would care to offer an alternate one, Herr General?”

Now it was my turn to scowl. “You seem to have lost me, sir.” I noticed Johannsen nod tightly toward his camera, and this infuriated me. The situation was clearly out of control if Esset needed an Omega-ranked telepath clearing my every statement. “Possible explanation for what?”

A fourth window appeared on my screen, showing a vista I knew all too well: the Officers’ Corps at Berlin. Small plastic markers denoted five separate points of interest, clustered tightly within a bare meter’s radius. Hodert’s voice served as narration as he said, “Approximately three weeks ago, Berlin was compromised.”

“What?” I blurted, unable to stop myself. The instructors there had always been fiercely protective of their students, their protégés. The students themselves received the best training, on a par with Prague itself. It seemed inconceivable that we should even be discussing this! “Compromised? How?”

“Really, Konrad. I am surprised that you do not already know.” Hodert’s tone had gone quite icy. “Are you not in the business of watching every possible move that your renegade team might make? It seems that either your experiment is a blatant failure, or you have withheld crucial information on the movements of that team.”

This couldn’t be happening! I had no control over what my mice might See or uncover. My only goal had been to determine if foreknowing in any form could be baffled by so much interference. Surely Hodert wasn’t serious in his accusations?

::Deadly serious, Konn.:: Mendez showed no emotion in his eyes as he said, ::I suggest you answer him.::

My teeth ground together hard enough to ache. I turned my attention to the image of the empty room and asked, “Am I being charged with a failure, or a mutiny? What is the position of Hapsburg?”

A softly distorted voice replied, “No charges today, Herr General. We merely require whatever information your sources might provide, along with your full cooperation.”

Bloody hell. “Hapsburg has always relied upon Rosenkreuz. I have endeavored to maintain a strong foundation for that trust.”

That masked voice spoke again. “And for that, you have our gratitude. However, it is in our best interest to assign a Gamma unit to oversee your project. Herr Pfalzgraf will see to the details.” A shadow moved across the picture of the room, as of a man pacing in his study. “We are concerned that you are spreading yourself too thin, Herr General. With the failure of Rosenkreuz to adequately represent itself, we have conducted a search for appropriate leadership. After our appointed delegates arrive there this afternoon, your duties shall consist solely of leading the search teams as their liaison officer. The care of the facility itself shall be left to more suitable hands.”

I swallowed and tried not to think. This was at once outstanding good news, and a terrible setback. There would be a new layer of authority above me, probably watching and hampering every damn move – but I had not been removed from the search for Crawford’s team. I struggled to find the proper response. “Your concern is unnecessary, sir, though it is graciously received. I shall offer my commander my full cooperation.”

“You misunderstand, Herr General.” The shadow in the picture shifted, seemed pensive. “Rosenkreuz shall offer its new master its full cooperation. You, however, shall answer to me.”

I couldn’t help thinking that this was easier said than done, as I had no indication of which member of the royal house had just co-opted my loyalty. “Where shall I begin, then?” I asked, choosing a carefully neutral question.

Hodert rejoined the conversation. “Did your experimental team have any foreknowledge of the espionage at Berlin?”

“Not that I know of,” I told him quite candidly. “Their notes are erratic, unpredictable. Believe me, if I had had any indication that the rogue team would turn up in Berlin, I would have driven there myself to intercept them.” Then I had to ask: “What happened? What did they do?”

Referring to the picture of the hillside, Hodert began to explain. “Flags three through five denote the positions of three youth officers. Number five denotes Youth Captain Gunther Albrecht, a dog handler with four units at his disposal. His was the only coherent account of the incident. And I quote: ‘Two men, civilian attire. The taller one – slender, red hair, fair, blue eyes. The other – stockier, possibly albino except for eye color – amber; left eye missing, standard black patch. I issued challenge. The taller man showed to be a telepath, assault-trained. He incapacitated my squad. His associate threatened me and my dogs with a dagger. The telepath forced me to command the dogs to stand down. He called me his messenger and placed words in my head, followed by a command to sleep.’” Hodert paused, shuffled his notes, then went on. “Albrecht relayed the message itself as follows: _‘Schwarz lives. We were stronger – you could never stop us. Remember.’_”

My heart raced, with excitement at how close they had been and with concern for young Albrecht: I had been a Youth Captain once myself. His squad had been overwhelmed, he himself used as a living message. What price would he pay for his failures? “Herr Hodert, if I may, what was the final outcome of this situation?”

“The squad has been remanded to Prague for more intensive training. Dogs and all.” He did not seem happy about this.

“I see. And might I interview these witnesses in person?”

Hodert offered another of those coolly polite smiles. “You don’t have the clearance.”

Anger boiled through me. “You demand my assistance yet deny me any in return? What kind of miracles do you expect from me, Herr Hodert?”

“We do not demand assistance, Herr General.” That soft computerized voice preempted anything Hodert may have intended to say. “We demand loyalty.”

“I see.” Esset had no intention of allowing me free rein, only the illusion of it. “And how deep shall this loyalty run?”

The camera jittered and moved as though the shadowy figure had lifted it from its stand and now carried it across the darkened room. It paused over an ornately carved desk, upon which rested the official royal stationery and a brass seal.

The seal of the Lord High Prince himself.

  
**A/N – Complicate**

To quote Mel Brooks’ “History of the World, Part One” (spoken by a down-and-out comedian who’s trying to find something he can discuss without, er, losing his head): “Politics! Politics, politics, politics!” Didn’t work so well for him, but it does get my point across here, I think. The many layers of the new form of Esset are starting to reveal themselves, as the factions begin consolidating their positions and separating the loyal from the overly ambitious.

Yes, Konnor himself refers to the precogs and clairsentients as “mice”. The mental static they create isn’t choosy, and it isn’t easily controlled. Suggestions are given, and received. After a while, it must be difficult to know whether one is coming or going. This is the desired effect against Brad Crawford, true, but it is also the very reason Prague needs to investigate the practice. How much quantum interference can accumulate before the very essence of space-time bends? Good question…

Pfalzgraf Hodert – the Count-Palatine of Prague; in his own domain, his word is law. One of the true liegemen of der Fürst von Esset.

“The Lord High Prince” – also known as der Fürst von Esset; headquartered in Hapsburg, Austria. One of two (at least) factions contending for control of the organization (and hence, the world).

Special reference note: from “Coming Home”, chapter 57-58 – Schuldig’s exact message to the dog handler was quite different from what Konrad has just been told…


	12. Chapter 12

**12\. – Friends **

  
I watched Johannsen gather his notes and scurry off to make his report as Mendez cleared away the remnants of our meeting. The Omega telepath was trouble, no questions there but two: how much, and for whom?

Mendez secured the equipment in the cabinet marked for erasure. A Gamma detail would come by and make certain that no trace of the meeting remained in any of the circuitry. Briefly I contemplated the difference between being thorough and being paranoid before realizing that for Esset, there was no difference.

::Konn, if you don’t calm down, someone besides me will notice.::

I glowered at my “friend”. ::I didn’t invite you.::

::You think I requested this?:: Mendez finished locking up and headed for the door. ::I’m having coffee at ten, find me if you like.::

As crisply as strangers, we went our separate ways.

I retreated to the sanctuary of my apartment. The new facility head would be here this afternoon, apparently with his own pre-selected entourage. My own inner circle stood on shaky ground, and I had only a few hours in which to steady it. Bloody hell.

There was one peacemaker who had always known the right answers, no matter how difficult the questions. He had ensured that Garrick, Mendez, and I had stuck by one another this long, forging an alliance of friends that even Esset could not break – until today. Had my trust in Mendez faded so badly that I no longer knew if he was my friend, based solely on one staged event? I slumped over my desk with a weary sigh. “Shel, what would you have had me do?”

Emotionally drained, I rested my head on my arms and tried to think. I hadn’t heard from Shelton Grant in years. In fact, in the aftermath of the slaughter I didn’t even know if he still lived. There had been very little communication between the facilities in the best of times, and now damn near none. If he was still doing the same sort of work as before, he wouldn’t have a set address anyway. Esset valued his language skills to the point he had become their roving specialist, delivering intensive training seminars throughout the organization. The man hadn’t stayed in one place since…

I frowned. Had that been another instance of Sonndheim’s puppetry, ensuring that my one best ally was nowhere to be found when I was most in need of his wisdom? Inwardly I’d blamed Shelley for not being there, and that coupled with his extensive travel had driven a wedge between us. Still, I would trust him with my life, for I’d already trusted him with my secrets.

_[“You should have picked more reliable friends…”] _

Damn him.

A tiny voice whispered in my mind: _Damn which? Shelley was too clever to be so easily played, even by Sonndheim. He wasn’t there when you needed him…_

_[“I suspect that Grant at least may have had the balls to shoot me before things ever went that far.”] _

Damn Sonndheim.

Because of him, I had seen things that no man should ever be made witness to. Because of him, I carried those nightmares in my soul.

Because of him, my one chance at redemption lay in ashes.

And now the site of that abomination would come under the scrutiny of strangers. For the first time since my own arrival so many years ago the facility would have a new layer of command. No mere pretender grasping power in the wake of disaster, this man and his attendants had been appointed by the hand of Hapsburg itself.

Would they seek out Sonndheim’s secrets, declare his rooms their own? Would they interfere with my search for answers there?

Bloody hell.

“Ah, damn it, Shel.” For a moment I debated trying to find him. Then I came to my senses. Whatever distance lay between us now could not be safely bridged. If he was still alive, his best chance to remain so depended on my absence. There were too many strands, too many games being played; I could not ensure his safety if he came back into my world.

I closed my eyes, allowed memory to give me what comfort it might. Shelley’s laughter, his quick wit and quicker venom, had always managed to bring me out of whatever darkness held me in its power, if only for a few precious moments. He had never been fooled, by any of it. Not by me, or Berlin, or Erich Sonndheim.

I truly doubted Shelton Grant to be among the living. That would be asking too much of my fate.

As ten o’clock approached, I imagined Shelley’s advice on the day: “If you don’t meet with Mendez this morning, you will not be able to count on him this afternoon, and this afternoon is going to be crucial. Go to him, Konnie. He isn’t the enemy. He never has been.”

“And neither have you,” I whispered, then felt quite foolish. Part of my mind had forgotten that I’d only imagined the familiar voice. I’d half expected to see Shelley sitting across from me, that wise half-scowl telling me we both knew he was right. Shel was almost always right.

God, how I missed him.

As I entered the cafeteria, our usual place for mid-morning coffee, I saw Mendez standing near the wall. Garrick was with him. I swallowed, suddenly convinced that the coffee would taste like paint on my tongue, tainted by my conscience.

::Glad you could make it, Konn.:: Mendez sounded genuinely relieved. ::I took the liberty of filling Garrick in. I figured you’d want all bases covered before this afternoon.::

::Thank you.:: I sipped my coffee and found it not so brackish as I’d expected. Forgiveness had its own rewards, and it was clear that in this case it was mutual.

“Not a pleasant meeting, but at least it brought no bad news,” Mendez observed aloud. ::You stayed there late last night, didn’t you, Konn? Did you find anything?::

“Not bad, no, but I’m not thrilled at the prospect of training a new commander. I hope he’s housebroken, at least.” ::Hints and puzzles,:: I replied. ::A huge string of keys.::

::What was that note you were reading?:: Garrick asked. “They’re making you deal with his in-house training? That’s raw.”

“Not in so many words, but we all know how it goes around here,” I stated, trying not to sound too bitter. Sonndheim had taken it upon himself to oversee my transition, and that had been the start of too many problems. ::Garbage. It was garbage.::

Mendez raised an eyebrow, but did not comment on our silent conversation. Instead, he suggested, “There is always the chance that the new commander will be spot-on, you realize. Hapsburg doesn’t do things half-way.”

Garrick looked momentarily startled, but recovered quickly. ::You didn’t say anything about Hapsburg. I thought they were coming from Prague.::

::They are,:: I explained, coming to Mendez’s defence without a second consideration. “And neither does Prague. When the two are in league, that means much.”

“Much politics,” Garrick muttered. ::Watch your back with this, Konn. I don’t like it.::

I accepted his comment without elaboration. It was one thing for him to confide his doubts, but another thing entirely for me to do the same. I tried not to smirk as I said, “Politics make for strange bedfellows, as they say.”

Mendez snickered and shook his head. ::Try not to piss these off, all right? They’re not Sonndheim, Konnor. Try to get along?::

For his efforts, Mendez received a mildly disapproving look over the rim of my coffee cup. ::You and I both know whose bed I belong in now. He made that quite plain.:: I took a sip of the bitter, cold liquid and added, ::Let’s just hope that our new acquaintances aren’t the jealous type.::

  
**A/N: – Friends **

For Konnor, it seems that Shelton Grant’s wisdom is the balance to Erich Sonndheim’s evil. One has to wonder which of the two is stronger, and whether time or distance really matter in this case. Of course, that does presume that we are asking these questions of a rational man, and unfortunately, Konnor has not shown himself to be completely rational these days.


	13. Chapter 13

**13\. – Master**

  
The sleek black sedan parked in front of the Administration building, where I waited with ten other men to greet our new masters. Mendez and Gerald Thornton, as senior telepaths, stood to either side of our group as a sort of honor guard. Everything had been arranged according to Esset protocol.

The sedan, of course, had arrived late.

The eleven of us were sweating in the mid-afternoon sun by the time the car pulled into the Rosenkreuz courtyard. We hadn’t had the option of leaving and coming back out, as we had to keep the appearance of readiness. The fifteen minute delay was not significant by most standards, but considering the circumstances I took it as a personal affront.

The back door opened, and a uniformed Intelligence operative stepped out to take up position at the rear wheel – guarding the next man out of the vehicle, then. I suppressed a grim smile. They, too, were playing this by the book. For whose benefit, I wondered?

On the far side of the car, the other back door swung open, revealing yet another operative. Only when he had surveyed the courtyard did the second vehicle pull in behind the first, allowing the massive gates to swing shut with a dull screech.

That grim smile struggled against all my discipline, wanting to be seen. They were following the script of securing a hostile facility. Would the assassins be next?

The passenger door of the first car opened and a young officer stepped out onto the hard-packed dirt of the courtyard. He straightened his jacket with a well-rehearsed touch, tucked his cap under his arm, and strode around the front of the car, his every move exuding extreme confidence and very mild disgust.

::That’s him, Konn,:: Mendez informed me, confirming what I already knew. ::Oh, hell, just what we need…:: I doubted he intended me to pick up this last comment, but his surprise came through clearly enough, bringing the words with it.

I saluted sharply, trying to see past the fresh-faced youth and find the Prague officer behind his cool façade. I swallowed down a snarl and greeted him per the script. “Lieutenant Colonel Vandemeer, welcome to Rosenkreuz.”

The young man graced me with a bored glare and a disinterested salute. “Herr General. Is everything ready?”

His voice, a clear tenor, further belied his youth. Beyond that, the tone itself annoyed me. He spoke with that lazy, cultured drawl associated with aristocrats and well-connected upstarts. Keeping my own tone neutral, I informed him, “Your quarters have been prepared, in the north wing of our staff apartments. Our own Gamma division will be housing your men.”

“Not acceptable.” Sharp gray eyes studied my face as Vandemeer stated, “We require adjacent suites. My work will be closely connected with that of my men. I am surprised you were not informed.”

His lack of surprise turned his eyes flinty. This was a test. I bowed slightly, not relinquishing my calm for this ill-delivered bait. “Information is a rarity these days, no matter how trivial. If one of your agents would accompany Herr Thornton, we can get this straightened out within the hour.”

“Very well. Dominguez, see to it.”

The fellow standing guard at the near wheel well saluted smartly and followed Thornton into the relative coolness of the Administration building.

“And,” I added before things could take any other unpleasant turns, “if you will kindly accompany me, Herr Vandemeer, we have much to discuss.”

“Indeed. We have not a moment to waste, Herr General. Time…is of the essence.” With that, the young Lieutenant Colonel preceded me into the building.

::Konn…::

::I don’t give a damn about regulations,:: I snapped back at Mendez. ::This punk has no clue what he’s gotten himself into here!::

::Good thing you don’t have to follow his orders, then, isn’t it.::

As I paused just within the doorway, Mendez bustled past me and hurried toward his own office, leaving me momentarily dumbstruck. Of course, he was right – I answered to the High Prince, not this petty little usptart! My mood lifted immediately, bringing a fresh spring to my step as I followed after the delegation from Prague.

“We shall speak in your office,” Vandemeer stated, apparently willing to overlook my brief hiatus. His smile, however, warned me very clearly as he observed, “I understand it’s one of the few suites in this building not under constant surveillance.”

Bloody hell. _The son of a bitch had been watching me under orders?_ With great effort I composed myself and nodded a fractional bow. “Of course.”

“This place never seems to change, does it, Herr General?” Vandemeer ran a casual hand across the wood railing that set this building apart from the others here. “Mock elegance amidst the carrion exhibits. I am pleased that not every familiar face is gone from here. Not yet, anyway.”

That sense of warning distracted me, urged me to try to remember this young man, to know who I was dealing with. But I had not had much contact with the Gamma Division trainees, and if this officer had come from Rosenkreuz initially, I did not recognize him. Hell, I didn’t even know what his talent might be. I trusted my shields to keep him out, should he be so inclined as to look; Mendez might slip past, but we had known each other for years.

As we mounted the stairs to my floor, Vandemeer paused at the level below mine. He shook his head, then continued up.

I followed, trying to ignore the panic screaming through my mind and coursing through my body. This young man was poison to me. Every instinct told me to draw my pistol and shoot him in the back, before we reached my floor.

Sometimes it is in our hesitation that our intentions are fully realized.

Vandemeer had paused to pay his final respects to Erich Sonndheim.

  
**A/N:**

**13\. – Master**

Esset Intelligence arrives, heralding a power shift at Rosenkreuz. It is a bitter thing, being replaced in authority by someone half your age.

The past has just repeated itself.


	14. Chapter 14

**14\. – Snake**

  
This time, my apartment door did not shut the nightmare out, but rather trapped me inside with it. The young serpent from Prague meandered through my home, admiring the sanctuary I had made for myself over the years. In his posture I could read his disgust at the excesses of my décor, though the only extravagance I ever allowed myself was books.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Herr General.” Vandemeer turned, his expression almost contrite. “May I call you Konrad?”

“As you prefer, Herr Vandemeer.”

His pale lips curved in a practiced smile and he held out his right hand to me. “Lenard.”

I accepted the handshake and the offer of his name, still trying to recall if I’d ever met him before. A tiny corner of my mind whispered: _you have but to remove your glove and know him_. I commanded it to silence before any rogue telepath might catch sight of it.

“May we drop the formalities, Konrad?” He gave my hand a final squeeze before releasing it and helping himself to a glass of brandy. “My orders are simple. Keep this facility running in spite of its losses, and oversee the Gamma unit that will be investigating your innovative practices here. I must confess, I am actually quite excited by all this.”

That dark corner of my mind whispered again: _I bet you are. Keep talking, boy. Impress me._

“Do you have any means to measure the success or failure of your experiment? The idea of using a linked series of metapaths intrigues me. However did you come up with it?”

I swallowed, my throat unaccountably dry. Before answering, I excused myself to the kitchen. The chilled bottle of Coke soaked through my glove and brought my own memories to the surface, memories of another warm day so long ago, and the reason for all this madness. Returning to my guest, I toasted him with the bottle, then said, “I was his mentor.”

“Ah, yes. Your dossier did mention such.” Vandemeer watched me closely, as though we were playing high-stakes poker. “So you took it upon yourself to try and track down your wayward charge. Admirable. You above all others should have some insight into him, am I right?”

“I would like to think so.” For some reason, discussing Bradley with this outsider did not set well with me. He was too young to understand. He looked to be the same age I had been when I was handed this pigsty of an assignment. The same age that damned Hernandez had been… I poured some of my Coke into a glass, added whiskey, forced it down. “I knew him well, until last year.”

“Indeed?” Vandemeer regarded his own drink. Only one slender uplifted eyebrow betrayed his suspicion before he stated, “I was under the impression he caught you quite by surprise, Herr General. That doesn’t sound like a close relationship.”

I hoped he couldn’t hear my heart pounding as I asked, “What are you suggesting?” I had the sudden, awful feeling I had just invited an executioner into my apartment.

But the young officer smiled that dainty, elegant smile, and said, “Why, nothing sinister, Konrad. Merely that you should bear in mind the possibility that you never knew him as well as you imagined.”

“You haven’t met him, have you?”

“Met him?” Vandemeer set his drink down and gazed at me with mild surprise. “Brad Crawford recruited me to Esset. I was thirteen. He said something at the time that I did not understand. He told me that I was the last talent he would locate, as a personal favor to his liaison officer. I don’t suppose you could shed some light on that? Six years can be a lifetime, after all.”

To my amazement, it was not shock but laughter that nearly undid me. I turned away to compose myself, hoping he hadn’t noticed the brief but profound slip. I’d felt my eyes light up with mirth, so inappropriate to the situation, but unavoidable. My dear Bradley had managed to outmaneuver me, in advance! Had he foreseen this meeting, this uneasy alliance between myself and Prague, with Hapsburg the looming chaperon? “Six years can, indeed, be a lifetime, especially here.” To my relief, my voice sounded normal. I took a deep breath and turned back toward my guest. “Brad Crawford anticipated his own promotion, Lenard. He was too skilled to be wasted on recruitment, when retrieval suited him so much better.”

“Ironic, that.” Lenard sipped his drink, his eyes thoughtful. “And I am here to retrieve him. You are right to admire him, Konrad. Though…your admiration wouldn’t compromise your efforts, would it? Your desire to see Crawford excel might lead you to believe he’s better off free.” He paused to lick a drop of brandy from the rim of his glass. “Which is it, Konrad? Do you so delight in his outwitting you that you no longer desire to come out on top?”

And there it was. The accusation behind the politics. “You may as well just ask me whose side I’m on, Lenard.” I stared unflinching as I stated, “I know my duty. I shall perform that duty. I would prefer to bring him in alive, at any cost, because a precognitive man of his caliber is an anomaly that Esset cannot afford to overlook. Any personal sense of gratification in his skill as a survivor and a leader is not relevant, though I would be lying if I denied that gratification. Brad Crawford is an amazing man. Strong, determined, shrewd, and capable of betraying Esset on many levels. Do not underestimate him.”

“I see.” Again, that tiny smile. “You are his staunchest advocate. Among the many players who would see him dead for his crimes, you alone hold fast to a hope of recovery. Tell me, what can Esset possibly offer him that would bring him back to you?”

I replied without hesitation. “The lives of his team. They are the key to his future. I believe he would sacrifice himself before allowing them to come to harm. And they would do anything to protect him. Capture any one of the four, and the other three are yours for the taking.”

“Are you so certain, Konrad?” Lenard set his glass down, his gaze seemingly caught in the cut crystal of the brandy bottle. He glanced up at me through wheat-gold eyelashes. “He certainly seemed ready to sacrifice the whole lot in order to kill the Elders.”

I shook my head, certainty no less clear now than when I’d first learned of the betrayal. “No. Not sacrifice. He fully intended to go with them, whether in life or in death. That’s not quite the same thing.”

“No, you’re right.” Lenard’s voice had gone soft, thoughtful in a dreamy sort of way. “It’s not the same, is it. There is a nobility to him, something ageless and rare. Something that Esset was not prepared to deal with.” He straightened, then bowed to me. “I think we shall work well together, Herr General. I have many questions to ask of your Mr. Crawford, when we find him.”

My heart caught in my throat as I asked, “Then you mean to take him alive?”

“I do.” Lenard offered me a different kind of smile then: a sad one. “If he allows it.”

  
**A/N:**

Lenard Vandemeer: ally, enemy, obstacle? Hard to tell. But the real question is, is he the real problem? Konnor would do well to remember the old adage that warns how easy it is to become that which one most despises.

metapath – any mental talent (not physical) other than telepath or empath; a blanket term including all far-seers and the more unusual mixes of talents (clairsentients, precognitives, dream seers, illusionists)


	15. Chapter 15

**15\. – Decisions**

  
Our first meeting had gone from frosty and unwelcome to a fragile alliance. Now, as I stood in Lieutenant Colonel Vandemeer’s new office three days later, that balance shifted over to uneasy.

“I have reviewed your project, Herr General. In all candor, I cannot see any usefulness to it. Without a way to measure results, you may as well be shooting arrows at the stars.”

“The exhaustion of the participants should be indication enough!” I braced my hands against his desk and leaned down to glare into his face. “If the project were ineffective, I doubt that we would be seeing so much backlash from it!”

“I doubt,” Lenard began, rising from his seat and meeting my glare directly, “that there would be much difference whether they were effective or no, Herr General. Unless someone can report to me that Brad Crawford is experiencing some distress related to this, I cannot accept such flimsy evidence.”

“Don’t cancel the project,” I snarled. “It’s the best chance we have, damn it!”

“Best chance for what? For allowing him to move about unhindered and unobserved? How many of your metapaths have even Seen him, Konrad?” The young officer’s face went pink with anger as he finally allowed his rigid control to slip. “He is hidden, you fool! He knows exactly how to avoid your agents – he’s been running circles around you!”

“Of course he knows how to avoid them, he used to be one!” My own words caught me by surprise, and I backed off, blinking.

Lenard, too, backed down. He watched me closely, one hand no doubt on the butt of a pistol underneath the edge of his desk.

I composed myself with difficulty. At first I’d wanted to despise this arrogant young officer. Then I’d dared consider him a potential ally. What was the truth here? Could I trust him with Bradley’s life? Lenard had claimed an interest in retrieving him alive; dare I believe that?

Dare I not?

Lieutenant Colonel Vandemeer served Pfalzgraf Hodert directly, reported to him, carried out his orders. What were those orders, and what might they say about the value of Brad Crawford’s life? Or of my own?

Cool gray eyes studied me as I ran through my options.

“Don’t make me decommission this project, Vandemeer,” I growled. “Do what you must, our Gamma division is wholly at your disposal. But do not end the Farseeing Project.”

“You are personally involved, Konrad. This clouds your judgment.”

“It does not. Not about this.” I met his gaze, held it. “Consider this a long-term gamble. If you need the personnel for another assignment, we can discuss it. But I seriously doubt that you will find a better use for them. Allow me this eccentricity, against my service record. If you find me unfit, then I request transfer to Berlin.” I hated saying this, I hated playing this card, but if I could not manage at least a portion of the hunt for Brad Crawford, I did not want to watch what might unfold in my absence.

“‘_This_ eccentricity’?” Lenard allowed that high-born smirk to cross his lips again, and he let his eyes drift from my face to my hips. “From all reports, ‘eccentric’ is an understatement, Herr General.”

I almost choked on my reaction as a mixture of dread and betrayal made my stomach churn. My face twisted into a hard sneer as I leaned over the desk once more, glaring into the pale eyes that had dared to mock me with such casualness. “You will conduct your business here, and leave me to my own, _Prague_. I was running this facility before you were even a vague speculation on the docket. I will continue my work for Esset – for _Esset_, not _Prague_ – and I will hand them this fugitive in chains before your dogs are even on the scent!”

Vandemeer sat back in his chair, his expression maddeningly familiar: bland amusement with a hint of satisfaction and just a touch of hatred. He clapped his hands with theatrical exaggeration. “Well said, well said, sir!” His eyes narrowed. “But I must correct you. The time for masquerade is long past. If this is news to you, I regret being the bearer of it but let’s get it over with quickly, shall we? You have never been this facility’s commanding officer.”

I resisted the urge to find a chair and sink into it. Instead, I stood and hoped that my reaction did not show on my face.

Deep in my mind, a raspy chuckle echoed over and over.

“From the end of the second world war until the mid-1970’s, Rosenkreuz underwent a transformation into Esset’s premier research facility. I can see you already knew that part of it. Everything here was part of the research. Everything, Herr General. Even the staff.”

This boy, barely half my age, had just torn my reality apart. I struggled to maintain some sense of calm in the face of the whirlwind, felt the futility of it, struggled anyway.

“I know everything about you, up until the day you dismantled your surveillance equipment.”

As though I no longer controlled my own body, I found myself glancing around the office and wondering at the lack of armed guards. I could kill Lenard and no one would stop me. I could make him shut up, make him stop turning my world upside down. Instead, my hand reached back and tugged a chair close enough to be useful. My legs deposited my weight on the sturdy wood and leather, and once again I found myself eye-to-eye with young Lenard Vandemeer.

His eyes no longer harsh, he regarded me with an almost sad expression. “My orders, Herr General, included bringing your project into line with our needs, and, if you resisted, giving you a final choice. You have the truth now. You may continue to serve Esset, no longer a research subject yourself, or you may request a private execution.”

No longer a research subject? Was that all I had been? Was that why they gave me Bradley, then took him away? Was that why…?

The ghosts of my past rose up, begged me to take the second option. The boy I’d shot so long ago at Berlin, the boy I’d used as my shield just this past spring – their eyes implored me to take my place at their side, to cast all this behind me and put an end to it.

Bradley’s eyes begged me, pleading _[“No, please, not him! I’ll do anything! Please, stop!”]_…

Flickering tongues of flame whispered grim accusations that I could never deny.

_[Does he despise you for what you have done?]_

A soft sound brought me back to the present: the scraping of metal on wood.

Vandemeer reached across his desk, hand flat upon its surface. His eyes were unreadable. “Many errors have been made here. You can learn from them. Make your choice in your own time, not in mine. The future has not been written yet.” He lifted his hand.

On the desk lay a key.

I picked it up as though in a dream. “What is this for?”

Lenard smiled the sad, real smile again. “When you can tell me, I will be waiting to hear it.”

  
**A/N:**

Prague is now more mystery than before, and Vandemeer’s role even less obvious. Konrad has just learned much he would rather not have known. Some things should just stay locked…


	16. Chapter 16

**16\. – Pieces**

  
My bootheels echoed against the tile, keeping me company as they tapped out a proper cadence. I had no idea where I was heading, only vague concern for where I had been.

In my pocket, the small brass key weighed heavy as a curse.

I had compared it to the keys on the lanyard twice now. It is similar in size and shape to any number of desk keys or filing cabinet keys, but it is older, dull with tarnish. It is not a spare key to anything connected with that lanyard. Why should it be? It had come into the keeping of Prague, and I had not the slightest clue how – or when. Naturally I presumed it to have once belonged to Erich Sonndheim, but if I had not found that strand of keys would I still have come to that conclusion?

If I only dared touch it with bare skin…

Turning right, I entered the medical department. They had older style filing cabinets and such; perhaps the key had once lived here.

A thorough survey of locks and keys confirmed without a doubt that this was not the case. Everything here was aluminum or steel – no brass.

As I left that lead behind me, I began to consider locks outside the confines of Rosenkreuz proper. Perhaps the key unlocked a bank box or a locker somewhere.

I stopped dead in my tracks. A locker, somewhere? Sonndheim had known about Rudi; had he known where? I swallowed, forced myself to walk as though I had no worries. Myriad possibilities taunted me now: a car’s glove box, a private mail drop, a suitcase, a desk…

Upon returning to my apartment, I tried the key in my own desk, breathed a sigh of relief when it didn’t work.

This was crazy.

Vandemeer had set me on a fool’s errand to distract me from his dealings, it was that simple. By now he surely has decommissioned the farseeing project, perhaps going so far as to send the participants to other facilities. He could even be planning my execution for the moment I began asking questions.

Crazy.

I reached for my phone, intending to call my truest confidant – then remembered that Shelton Grant had not been at this facility in years.

Vandemeer’s words echoed in my brain. _Everything here was part of the research. Everything, Herr General. Even the staff._

Even me.

I should be used to this by now, I’d had three days to come to terms with it, and yet I felt as though I were running slowly in circles. I could not reconcile the hours of my life with the date on my calendar.

It was as though the past week had not happened.

Was I in shock? Was that it?

Or…did I instinctively know that I was going about this the wrong way?

Biting back a snarl at adversaries no longer present, I tugged off my gloves and pulled the key from my pocket.

_Minemyownmysecretsworthmorethangold_ – I gasped, dropping the key on my desk. This had been Sonndheim’s key, then. But why was it at Prague

Flexing my hand as if to work out a cramp, I cautiously picked the key up once more. _What are you?_ I asked it. _What do you unlock, my tiny conundrum?_

_A dossier. A file. Classified, locked by Esset Intelligence. The cabinet, an ugly green metal affair, heavy, with chipped paint along the right-hand side…and Erich Sonndheim, locking that cabinet for the last time, intending it to be the last, and sending the key via secure courier to Prague._

_Per his orders._

The images faded, eroded by time passed, until the key became merely a deliberately cut piece of metal.

I didn’t consciously plan to do so, but I found myself in the bathroom, collecting the uniform I had worn to Sonndheim’s apartment and changing into it. I slipped my pager and the lanyard of keys into my pockets, added a spare clip for my pistol, then tucked the brass key in a breast pocket to keep it from getting misplaced. My gaze fell upon the mocking letter I had retrieved from Sonndheim’s mirror; it joined the brass key.

Electric torch in hand, I left my apartment in search of answers.

I had intended to search through Erich’s apartment once more, but instead found myself entering the burned-out wreckage of the old research wing. Though the medical clinic had held no matching lock, perhaps here I would find some clue to the key’s purpose. The thought of locked files brought up images of experimentation and punishment, things that made my hackles stir to life as though hearing the whispers of ghosts.

This building had been the first physical casualty of the Purge, the student uprising in those mad days back in April. While I had been locked away in meetings with the remainder of the staff, the students brave enough and skilled enough had done quite a lot of damage. They had targeted the medical centers, which came as no real surprise. Even the least sane knew whose hand held the instruments of torture; the fires had raged unchecked for two days.

There had been no move made to rebuild this wing, either. Perhaps it was a show of good faith, to keep the remaining students from slaughtering what was left of the faculty. Perhaps it was simple lack of interest.

Perhaps Rosenkreuz had already been decommissioned.

I picked my way through the rubble, drawing occasional curious glances but no challenge. Briefly I wondered what sort of toxins I might be walking through; then I reminded myself we had all been breathing the smoke, so it probably didn’t matter so much now.

Twisted metal cell doors lay where they had fallen, reshaped by the heat when the labs had exploded. And there, scorched and likely gutted by fire, two tall filing cabinets lay propped against each other. My heart sank. If the key did indeed fit either of those, the chance of finding anything useful within seemed nonexistent.

Bracing my feet against the rubble, I leaned over and tried the key in first one, then the other. The answer was the same for both.

It fit.

It did not, however, turn.

  
**A/N – Pieces**

Oftentimes it is the case that the wrong key will still slide smoothly home in a kindred lock, though lacking the power to affect it. Until the matching lock is found, the key is impotent. A metaphor? Perhaps…


	17. Chapter 17

**17\. – Care**

  
“You’re pushing yourself too hard, Konn.” Garrick’s rough voice covered the obvious concern as he offered me a drink. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Irrelevant,” I murmured, accepting the glass from one of the very few I trusted enough for such civil moments. “Sleep isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

“Interesting turn of phrase, ‘cracked up’.” Garrick took a sip of his own drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. “Once, a long time ago, I told you I had your back. I’m worried about you, Konn. So is Al. You’ve gone erratic. You know that’s not good.”

“I’m fine, my friend,” I told him, suddenly aware that the uniform I wore smelled vaguely like a crypt and held secrets in its pockets. Erratic indeed. I felt more weary than I had in years, with a distinct lack of optimism. Is this how Sonndheim had endured his tenure here, with quiet resignation? Was he even now seeping in through my skin?

“I’ve seen fine, and you are far from it.” Garrick set down his glass, half-finished, and sat opposite me. “Look at yourself, man! You’re a shambles, a walking shipwreck waiting to happen.”

“Spare me the poetry.” I glared at my friend, vaguely aware that I’d taken my own drink far too quickly. In any other company, I would excuse myself and retreat to the safety of my home. Here, though, I felt compelled to stay and hear him out. I did not, however, have to put up with his notorious pontificating.

“Hey, you invited yourself, Konrad.” Garrick took up his glass again, drained it. “If you didn’t want to talk, why are you here?”

I sighed, allowed the breath to take most of my stubbornness with it. “I…I just needed a haven for a while. A brief respite, if you will. Things are moving too fast lately, in directions I never anticipated. I’m…”

“Exhausted,” my friend offered. “Wrung-out, at the end of your rope, badly in need of some decent rest. You’re not trapped here, Konn, why don’t you take a few days, clear your head?”

_Because that would leave the mystery untended._

I pushed that thought to the back of my mind, where I knew it would continue to fester until I had solved it. He was right, and we both knew it.

Apparently Garrick took my silence as obstinacy, which would not be far from the truth. He scowled and folded his arms across his chest. “You’re being reckless again. You know this, right?”

“Your point?”

My friend rose and refilled both our glasses. “My point is only this. That boy we found in Sonndheim’s bed? He doesn’t exist.”

I gaped up at him, numbly accepted the fresh drink. “Say again?”

“There is no official record that I could find linking a blond-haired boy with Erich Sonndheim at the time of his execution.” Garrick paused, sipped his whiskey. “I went back another six months, then two years. Nothing.”

“Bloody hell,” I growled, annoying myself with my choice of words: Shelley’s pet phrase reminded me keenly of his absence. “No record anywhere?”

“Well, I wasn’t about to ask Vandemeer,” Garrick muttered. “No record in medical, intake, supply, or corrections. There’s something decidedly odd about this, Konn. I don’t like it.”

“We _are_ talking about Sonndheim,” I reminded us both. “Odd is to be expected.”

“Not this kind of odd.” Garrick returned to his chair, leaning forward as he spoke as if to emphasize his words. “Have you ever known him to smuggle someone in from outside? I have no evidence this kid was even a psi-talent.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Now it was my turn to abandon my seat. I started pacing, no longer noticing the smell that clung to me like a shroud. “He had his pick of any boy here, why would he bring in someone like that?”

“Hell if I know, Konn. But I’ve been going through the medical records for the past two days, and there’s nothing. No intake forms, no passes, nothing. I haven’t checked the basement yet, but those files are mostly –”

The rest of his words slipped past my attention. _The files in the basement._ The locked disciplinary actions. Of course! What else could the damn key possibly hide? My throat tightened as ghosts rose up around me in a chorus of accusation.

_[“You’ve got to believe me, I didn’t do this!”_

_“Muzzle your dog, Erich, or so help me I’ll do it for you!”]_

_[“This is insane!” My voice cracks as though I were a boy again, as though I were the one condemned to this degradation, this horror._

_“No, it’s quite simple. Find out what he knows, or I will.” Hooded eyes above a serpent’s smile, showing only delight at a devil’s bargain about to be struck.]_

_[“I know too many of your secrets for you to deny me_ time…Stricher.”]&lt;/em&gt;

_[“All right,” I hiss, my throat raw with another’s screams. “You’re done.”_

_Sonndheim regards me with cool excitement, anticipation dotting his upper lip with sweat. “Are you defying me, General?”_

_“No, as always, I am going through proper channels.” I throw the papers down at his feet like a gauntlet. “Your orders, Erich. This inquest is closed._ It never happened!

“Konrad?” Garrick snapped his fingers in front of my face and tried my name again. “Konrad!”

I stared dumbly at him, momentarily lost between past and present. The whiskey in my glass has spilled across my fingers, the glass itself perilously close to falling from my hand. I swallowed, nodded, hoping to reassure, knowing the gesture to be futile. Garrick had rarely fallen for my best lies, and never for my worst. “I’m all right. Just…thinking.”

Steely gray eyes bored into mine, allowing me no chance to talk my way out of this. In other circumstances, long ago perhaps, I might have found his boldness intriguing. Now I knew it for the desperate protectiveness of a once-dear friend who no longer knew his place with me. Sadness gripped me, and I nearly told him everything.

But secrecy had been my friend even longer than Garrick.

I gripped his arm in a one-handed embrace in the way of men who do not easily acknowledge closeness. “I am all right, Gar.” I took a deep breath, then another. “We both know damn well what files _are_ in the basement.”

“Don’t do this to yourself, Konn,” Garrick grated, frustrated concern narrowing his eyes to slits. “You weren’t responsible for what happened.”

My hand tightened on his arm until my fingers cramped. “I was responsible enough! _He_ made certain of that.”

Moving slowly, Garrick gently pried my fingers loose from his bicep, pinned my arm to my side as though trying to control an hysteric. “Drop it, Konn. You can’t change anything now. It’s past.”

Momentary outrage gave way to the weight of time. I sagged against the inevitability of his words, the futility of my own. “The past is with us, my friend. We can’t escape it.”

“Then why do you keep trying?”

Emotion welled up in my throat; I choked it down, reminding myself that, though Garrick was a confidant, he was not Shelley. I dare not allow myself to slip.

Garrick smiled gently, reassuringly, his hand still firmly on my right forearm. His eyes were wise and calm. “Take a break, before the break takes you.”

Absently I nodded, wishing he were someone else. I had dreamed of having Bradley with me, of having him to comfort me through the difficult times, of giving him comfort…

Whether he picked up any of that or merely knew me too well, Garrick caught my gaze again and stated, “You’re not rational right now, you’re worn out and you’re not getting anywhere like this. I’ll do some more digging tomorrow, see what I can find out. Take a few days off, Konn. Get some fresh air, get some real coffee.” He smiled that gruff, reassuring smile that meant he was up to something on my behalf. “I’ll handle Vandemeer. You pull yourself back together. Believe me, you’ll have the easier job.”

I smiled back at him, wishing we had only just met and all our mistakes lay unmade in the future. So many possibilities, so many paths not taken… “All right, my friend. I’ll leave you to it.” In homage to our long-lived trust, I said, “If, in your wanderings, you come across an old green filing cabinet with the paint chipped along the right-hand side, make note of it for me.”

Garrick frowned slightly. “What, are you missing one?”

I gave him my most innocent grin and said, “Noticed one in an old photograph of Sonndheim’s. Wondered what the old rat may have been hiding in it.”

“Not another body, I hope…”

  
**A/N: – Care**

It is clear that Konrad trusts his friends, but only just so far. He is close to a breaking point: trust them, or toss them aside? He needs Garrick, more than he knows – his is perhaps the only physical contact Konnor has allowed in months, and yet Konnor keeps him at a safe distance. Would Garrick offer more? I doubt it. Garrick knows his friend well enough to know it would never be accepted, and so he is unlikely to try. But one does not need to be a lover to recognize the pain inside another man; one must only care.


	18. Chapter 18

**18\. – Pilgrim**

  
Returning to my apartment, I chastised myself for even mentioning the green filing cabinet. I could tell by the way he’d looked at me that Garrick hadn’t bought the photo story for a moment. Still, I counted him as one of my few trusted allies, and as such I should be able to enlist his help in my quest.

I changed out of the uniform I had come to regard as my “safari gear” and washed the real or imagined smell of it off my skin, lingering a bit longer than usual in the shower. A vague sense of optimism kept me cheerful as I towel-dried my hair, then ran my hands through it leaving it rakishly ruffled.

The buzz of the whiskey kept me moving forward along an impulsive track, something I had needed to do for some time now.

Standing naked before my closet, I regarded my clothes with a thoughtful scowl. How long had it been since I’d taken a holiday, gotten out of this godforsaken place and breathed clean air? Long enough that my street clothes were surely out of fashion; I added a bit of shopping to my agenda and hauled down my larger suitcase to handle whatever I might bring back.

As I packed, I could almost feel my ghosts watching me through a veil of smoke, as though curious what I might do next.

Reeling a little from the whiskey and the lingering heat of the shower, I set aside a suit for tomorrow’s journey, then wandered into my kitchen for some chilled water. There were no perishables in my refrigerator to worry about, nothing that couldn’t last a week without me, at any rate. I sipped my water and meandered toward the phone.

Briefly I wondered if there were still surveillance equipment in my home, alerting Prague and God knew who else that I was packing for a trip before I could call it in. That thought made me laugh. I’d become so used to having no privacy that I would probably never know what to make of it. I called the motor pool and requested a private sedan for the next week.

Only after arranging that did I contact Vandemeer.

“Seven days? Very well.” Lenard sounded vaguely intrigued. “Will you be needing an escort or expenses?”

“No, just a car,” I told him, hoping he couldn’t hear the whiskey in my voice.

“Destination?”

“Personal.”

I held my breath, waiting for the challenge, but it didn’t come. Vandemeer merely said, “Take your pager, and do stay at a pleasant hotel. My treat.”

“Thank you, sir,” I replied, then hung up before he could say anything else.

I debated a moment, then rang Garrick.

“It’s about time,” he growled when I told him of my plans. “Come back a little more Konrad and a little less wrecked, all right? I’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone.”

He promised to tell Mendez, wished me a good night’s sleep, and bade me safe travels. As the line went silent, my hand moved to dial another number before I remembered that it wasn’t relevant: Shelley wasn’t here.

Sleep came quickly, and with it vague dreams, the sort remembered for only a moment upon waking. I rallied to the day, deciding to grab breakfast on the road rather than spend another wretched moment within these walls.

I secured the last few items, toiletries and the like, and checked my appearance in the mirror. Timeless business suit, vest and tie, neatly groomed hair showing far more gray than the last time I’d traveled for pleasure. I scowled at my reflection. Two decades I had lived here, if one could call that living, and it had aged me three.

With a sigh I returned to my bedroom and snapped the suitcase shut. I traded out my white cotton gloves for black driving gloves, tucking the white ones safely in my coat pocket. As I flexed my fingers in the stiff leather, I noticed with distaste a bald spot in the cotton lining. It hit the tip of my left ring finger; shouldn’t be a problem, but I would be on the lookout for a new pair. It would grieve me to break in a new set; these carried their own memories deep within the fibers of the lining and the creases in the leather.

My head hurt slightly, reminding me that I’d had a little too much whiskey the night before. I grabbed a Coke to silence the pain with sugar and caffeine, slipped my pager into the vest pocket, and carried my suitcase to the door.

Then I paused, set the case down, and turned back toward my desk. I unlocked the large drawer to the side and took out Erich Sonndheim’s lanyard of keys and his diary pages, and the annoying little brass key entrusted to me by Lenard Vandemeer. Dare I remove them from the premises? Dare I leave them behind?

After a brief deliberation, I put the lanyard back into my desk, retaining only the key that fit the padlock across Sonndheim’s door. The other keys were Rosenkreuz property, no matter whose desk they lived in. The little brass key and the diary pages joined the padlock key in a small pile. I rifled through my desk for any other incriminating items before locking it securely and carrying the select items back to the suitcase. They fit neatly into the inner lining pocket, next to my gun and ammunition.

Once more I shut the suitcase, this time locking it as well. I took up my drink and suitcase, switched off the lights, secured the door and headed toward the motor pool.  
A sleek black Mercedes awaited me, its nose aimed toward the gates and freedom. Relative freedom, anyway; I wasn’t about to be picky. As I always had so many times before, I had to suppress a chuckle at the urge to tip the “parking valet” – this wasn’t a five-star hotel by any means, but the service was just as good. I thanked the young man and settled in behind the steering wheel.

The massive iron gates swung open, slow as wisdom. The very sky looked different when they no longer blocked the view. As I directed the car onto the road away from the facility, a sense of relief swept over me. I had done it, I had wrangled a little bit of precious time just for me.

But what to do with it?

Esset would be monitoring me via the pager, of course. I had no illicit dealings, no improper destinations; never had, really. Uncouth, perhaps; undignified, certainly. But nothing that would send up red flags in the Esset observation deck.

I only knew of one place to go anymore.

It would take me most of the day to get there, but I didn’t mind. In my heart, I had already known; I’d decided when Garrick first suggested I go on holiday.

Berlin.

My breath caught in my throat as I realized that Bradley had been there barely a month ago. Would he still be in the area? Then reason set in: they hadn’t seen Bradley, only Schuldig and Farfarello. I had no indication that Bradley had even been in Germany.

Still, as I drove, I couldn’t help but glance at the other drivers and compare them to a memory. What irony that would be, finding him as I flee the very facility that wants him back! If I did see him, what would I do about it? A corner of my mind suggested throwing in my lot with him, begging Bradley to take me with him.

Then I remembered the second brutal lesson of Rosenkreuz: never beg.

I choked back a sob as past and present blurred, and the trusting face of young Bradley was replaced by the grim visage of Brad Crawford, leader of the most notorious Alpha unit ever fielded. I had made him this, I had given him the strength to rebel. Had I given him his reason as well?

This would be a long damn drive with only my own company. Aggravated at myself already, I switched on the radio.

The road rolled away beneath me, almost mesmerizing in its constancy. When I noticed the time, I found I had been driving nearly two hours and still had not bothered to find breakfast. At the next opportunity I stopped and forced myself to eat like a civilized person. It had been a long time since I had been around non-Esset folks, and paranoia kept me on a fine edge. My back felt knotted with tension.

Were any of these people really Esset assassins, waiting for me?

Were any of them hunting Bradley and his team?

Had they seen him?

As I left the establishment, I cautiously removed my right glove and tested the door. Thousands of imprints, but none of them Bradley. I ground my teeth against any visible reaction, though my step faltered as I hurried back to the car. Stupid, that had been incredibly stupid! But I had been no more able to resist then than at any other time in my life.

How long would I be ruled by my desires, by vague impulses that drove me to recklessness? I could control every other aspect of my life, but this need to know – this need to taste the lives left behind, in search of one – made every new place a shrine for Pandora ’s Box. One of these days I would open one that I could not safely close again, and I would be lost.

Was that what I was after? An oblivion of the senses, an overload that would erase all my pain? That would explain much.

It would explain the excesses of the flesh that drew me like a moth to flame, as they had done since I was a teenager.

It would explain why I had nearly accepted Sonndheim’s offer.

Could it explain the emptiness I now felt, echoing through my soul?

Take a break, before the break takes me – how certain was Garrick that it had not already done so?

Nothing to be done for it now. I had set upon a course of action and would see it through, as I did in all things, for good or ill. Was this stubbornness, or pride? Or fear of seeming indecisive? In any case, it was what drove me, what had driven me all through my career with Esset: a grim doggedness that clung to my decisions and damn the outcome.

When had a pleasure trip become something dire and irrevocable?

No wonder Garrick was worried.

Another glance at the clock: thirty minutes since breakfast. I would be raving mad by the time I arrived if I did not stop this line of thought, and quickly! Again I entrusted my sanity to the radio, finding a music station and turning it up as loud as I could bear. This was my vacation, damn it! And no one was going to sour it.

Not even me.

  
**A/N – Pilgrim**

And so a man will seek out a known refuge, no matter how much time has passed. A part of Konnor’s mind recognizes that Rosenkreuz is poison, that fleeing is his only option for sanity. Yet, in the quiet of his own company, uneasy questions begin to surface, painful questions that are not so easily answered.

It is said that the line between madness and sanity is marked by those who know the difference; I wonder where, exactly, Konnor would be on that continuum as he drives from nowhere…to nowhere.


	19. Chapter 19

**19\. – Residue**

  
Berlin.

Once my favorite city.

Now a place of empty memories and ghosts.

What I had known as West Berlin lay before me, East behind. I stood before the shattered wall and fought down a profound surge of homesickness. Though I had not been born here, it was here I had come of age, and now everything has changed.

I have changed.

Ironic, the timing of such things. As nearly all of Esset had focused on the reunification of Germany, a tiny drama had unfolded in its darkest facility, unchecked and irrevocable. A frown creased my brow as I wondered sharply whether it had, indeed, been only irony or, instead, a carefully staged coup.

In either case, if I could erase that month from my life I would do so without hesitation.

I swallowed down the bitter memory, consigned what remained of my conscience to its care. Like the Berlin Wall, my soul lay shattered, the remnants serving only as memorials to the past.

Memories and ghosts, indeed.

My feet carried me toward once-familiar streets, the early-morning sunlight mocking my sorrow as church bells began to ring. Sunday tourists had yet to flock to the boulevards; for a moment I felt as though I had the world to myself.

I dared wish in that moment that I might become forgotten to the world and to myself and become one with the city, as I had done so long ago.

Once, when the city had been mine, I would stay at a youth hostel or rent a room at a cheap motel, or sleep in my car for fear of discovery. I had spent my money and sold my flesh all for a few minutes of normalcy among the madness that was my life. The seediest gay bars were my refuge, and my cage.

At one such bar I had met for the second time the man who would become my best friend in all the world.

Had he been the loose link all along?

I caught myself before saying his trademark “bloody hell” and smiled bitterly. Would he have come here too, to recapture some lost moment in time? Doubtful. Shelton Grant had always been one of the most rational men I’d ever known, in spite of Esset. He would not come here because Berlin was not his city.

It had been mine, and now I felt like an orphan.

Last night I had checked in at an upscale hotel, one with a spa and numerous amenities. I hated it, not because of Vandemeer’s generous offer but because it simply did not suit me. I longed for the rawness, the realness I had left behind in this city of duality, not some over-civilized façade.

Berlin mirrored me too well.

I wandered through the Sunday crowds, wasting time. Strangers ignored me in that polite way one reserved for college professors and other oddities, the middle-aged men who did not seem to belong anywhere. At forty, I felt utterly used-up. No wonder people gave me that tiny non-smile as I passed: I was lost, and they knew it.

Shopping didn’t take long. Old habit moved me to buy fresh clothes for the bar scene, though I really didn’t expect to fit in. As I made my way back to the hotel with my packages, I wondered if I would even dare to venture out to the bars. And if I did venture out, what might I find there? Hope refused to abandon me entirely on that score, and I found myself awaiting nightfall with a nerve-wracking mix of anticipation and dread.

My second night in Berlin found me holed up in my hotel room, feasting on beer and sandwiches and watching horror movies on pay-per-view while my club gear and ambitions languished in the closet.

On Monday, dressed in new jeans and old shoes, new shirt and old sunglasses, I toured the city that remained so damnably familiar to me. Careful not to touch anything I did not absolutely need to touch, I made my way without gloves, though I carried a handkerchief in my pocket just in case the contact became too much.

Within a few hours my tolerance had been reached, my nerves screaming for quiet as the echoes of a hundred years sang through my fingertips. The slats of the park bench pressed against my spine as I leaned back against it, seeking comfort from the wood as my hands slowly stopped trembling. Reckless again, and stupid for being so; yet I found the pain so very comforting. Simple human existence, even in a city as complex as Berlin, served to remind me that Esset was not the only force in the world, a reminder that I sorely needed these days.

It also reminded me that my hidden gift did not diminish with disuse but rather grew more wild for lack of taming. I used to come here regularly, to Berlin, and I would eventually leave the gloves behind as I explored my own limits. The last time had been… I frowned, calculating. It had been nearly thirteen years, now.

Thirteen years of solitude, of longing for the impossible.

I closed my eyes behind my sunglasses, the glare of the past harsher than the sun. Instead of risking my own safety, I had destroyed Bradley’s, taking my pleasure with him as I wished. A part of me knew that I had hurt him, that I had betrayed all trust and given him not love but anguish.

Another part insisted that this was exaggeration, that there had truly been desire in his eyes.

This was the part of me that I feared, the part I instinctively knew was beyond mad. In daylight, in the fresh air of anyplace not Rosenkreuz, I could see it and know it for what it was: delusion. But delusion fed upon the darkness of Esset, thriving in the soulless void of Rosenkreuz and devouring all that fell before it. Without these sojourns beyond those walls I had spiraled further into the madness and lost sight of the ladder back out. Today I felt clear enough to dread my return.

I could still request transfer, to the Berlin facility or – no, not Prague. That door had been closed a long time ago. Copenhagen, perhaps?

But that would leave the hunt for Brad Crawford in the hands of strangers.

I fought down the impulse that shouted _MY Bradley!_ and looked at it quite objectively for a moment. Yes, I still regarded him as mine, but in what context? My discovery? My protégé? My love?

My destiny?

Infuriating logic pointed out that he had clearly loved another, and my claim to him was pure vanity. My heart felt leaden as the truth sank in, revisited after so many years. Bradley did not love me. He never had.

That didn’t change what I felt towards him. I would forgive him anything, if he would only – but no, that was the voice of madness again.

It suddenly occurred to me that I would have to choose between Bradley and my own sanity, if either could truly be salvaged at this point. Outside of Rosenkreuz it all seemed so obvious; was the place genuinely haunted, then, to keep it a haven for the damned?

Did it matter?

I took a deep breath, really tasting the air of freedom for the first time in over a decade. For the first time since…since Berlin saw its last days of duality. My eyes stung; I tugged off my sunglasses and wiped at my face. The price of cowardice is eternal flight, even after the enemy is long since gone. In this case, my enemy was now myself, taking up the lash after other hands had left it behind. I was truly driving myself mad, and I knew no way to stop it.

Before I could draw attention to myself, I replaced my glasses and rose to my feet. The path led me through the park, where late summer held court in lush colors and rich fragrances. I urged my senses to relax, pausing to touch a flower here, a tree branch there. The worries I carried would just have to wait; I refused to wallow in them any longer today. Today, there was beauty, and stillness.

I would contemplate those other things later, in the company of my revolver.

A profound calm came over me and I knew that this was right. I should enjoy the day, the week, even, and decide my future at the end of that time. Many others had been forced to choose between Rosenkreuz and death – even Bradley had faced that choice, spared by the fickleness of luck. I would not speculate on my own outcome, for that would taint the moment.

_[“Past is past, the future uncertain. You have no time but now.”]_

My lips curled in a sad smile as my fingers snagged on a rose bush, tearing skin. The words had been a mantra, a shield, pulled from an unwilling mind to take up lodging in my own. Sheer pathos, that they described my own life and Bradley’s in such honest terms.

Lifting my wounded fingers to my lips, I suckled the blood and considered the symbolism of it in the context of that philosophy. The only moment that matters is the one in which I now live; all else is folly, fantasy and hubris. Very well. I would take every moment in the next three days and taste the life flowing through it, and then I would face myself in the mirror.

After that? Either way, it would really make no difference.

  
**A/N – Residue**

November 1989. To most of the world, a time of freedom and hope.

A handful of men would recall it as a time that would live in infamy, if only in their own troubled hearts.

By that time, “Rudi” was quite dead, abandoned as events spiraled out of control in Konnor’s life. Now, a dozen years later and faced with his own lingering desperation, Konrad seeks solace in the past – but we all know that the past only remains static for object readers. The world…has moved on.


End file.
